B    3    Sfll 


TH€ 

UNIY6RS1TY  Of  CALlfORNIA 
LIBRARY 


THE    RING    OF   AMASIS. 


THE 


RING    OF    AMASIS. 


FROM  THE  PAPERS  OF  A  GERMAN  PHYSICIAN. 


ROBERT  BULWER  LYTTON. 

("OWEN  MEREDITH.") 


NEW    YORK: 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 

PEANKLIN    SQUAEE. 

1863. 


CONTENTS. 


PAKT   I. 

THE   DOCTOR. 

Polonius.  This  is  too  long. 

Hamlet.     It  shall  to  the  barber's  with  your  beard. 

Hamlet,  Act  II.,  Scene  2. 


BOOK    I. 


Wherewith  she  sits  on  diamond  rocks, 
Sleeking  her  soft  alluring  locks. 

MILTON  —  Comus. 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  THE  TUNING  OF  THE  INSTRUMENTS  ..............................  17 

II.  THE  LORELEY.  —  STRANGE  CONDUCT  OF  A  GENTLEMAN  IN 

BLACK  ...............................................................  24 

III.  I   DRAW  MY   OWN  CONCLUSIONS   ABOUT  THE  GENTLEMAN  IN 

BLACK  ...............................................................  29 

IV.  UNFORESEEN  OCCURRENCE  AT  ST.  GOAR.  —  THE  GENTLE 

MAN  IN  BLACK  DISTINGUISHES  HIMSELF  ...................  32 

V.  THE  LORELEY  IN  PERSON  ..........................................  37 

VI.  PUBLIC  OPINION.  —  WE  REACH  COLOGNE.  —  THE  OLD 
CRANE  ON  THE  OLD  TOWER,  AND  WHAT  IT  SEEMS  TO 
BE  SAYING  ..........................................................  41 


VI  CONTENTS. 


BOOK   II. 

£  f)  e   Secret. 

Mac.  Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased ; 
Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow  ; 
Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain  ; 
And,  with  some  sweet  oblivious  antidote, 
Cleanse  the  stuffed  bosom  of  that  perilous  stuff 
That  weighs  upon  the  heart  ? 

Doct.  Therein  the  patient 

Must  minister  to  himself. 

Mac.  Throw  physic  to  the  dogs.     I'll  none  of  it. 

Macbeth,  Act  V.,  Scene  4. 

•  -II. M>.  PAGE 

I.  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  PARENTHETICAL,  CONTAINING  SUN 
DRY  REFLECTIONS  UPON  THE  RELATIVE  POSITION  OF 

PHYSICIAN  AND  PATIENT 51 

II.   APPARITIONS 06 

III.  AND  WHAT  THEY   LEAVE   BEHIND   THEM 74 

IV.  THEORY  OF  APPARITIONS 85 

V.  THEORY  CONFOUNDED  BY  FACT 91 

VI.  ADVICE  TO  SIGHT-SEERS 94 

VII.  THE  GAMBLING-HOUSE  IN  TUB  RUE  97 

VIII.  THE  DOOR  OF  THE  SECRET 102 

IX.   REMAINS  SHUT 10G 

X.  HOME!...  ,.111 


CONTENTS.  VI 1 


PAET   II. 

THE   PATIENT. 

To  tread  a  maze  that  never  shall  have  end, 

To  burn  in  sighs  and  starve  in  daily  tears, 

To  climb  a  hill  and  never  to  descend, 

Giants  to  kill,  and  quake  at  childish  fears, 

To  pine  for  food,  and  watch  th'  Hesperian  tree, 

To  thirst  for  drink,  and  nectar  still  to  draw, 

To  live  accurs'd,  whom  men  hold  bless'd  to  be, 

And  weep  those  wrongs  which  never  creature  saw. 

HENRY  CONSTABLE. 


BOOK    I. 

&  J&eetr  from  tfje  STomli. 

The  story  of  my  life, 
And  the  particular  accidents  gone  by. 

Tempest,  Act  V. 

CIIA.P.  PAGE 

I.  ST.  SYLVESTER'S  EVE 119 

II.    AN   UNEXPECTED  VISITOR 123 

III.  THE  SECRET  IN  MY  HANDS  AT  LAST 130 

IV.  EARLY  DAYS 131 

V.  A  MUMMY  THAT  FINDS  MEANS  TO  MAKE  ITSELF  UNDER 
STOOD 141 

VI.  DOUBTS 157 

VII.  WESTWARD  Ho! 160 


viii  CONTENTS. 


BOOK    II. 

CEJje  Sotofnfl  of  tfje  JSeefc. 

Our  acts  our  angels  arc,  or  good  or  ill, 
The  haunting  shadows  that  walk  by  us  still. 

FORD. 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  THE  EGYPTIAN  GALLERY  AT  L 1G3 

II.  FELIX 175 

III.  JULIET 182 

IV.  EDMOND 186 

V.  FELIX,  EDMOND,  AND  JULIET 187 

VI.  STRAWS  UPON  THE  STREAM 192 

VII.  DRIFTING 197 

VIII.    AND    SOME     ARE     DRIFTED     TOGETHER,    AND     SOME    ARE 

DRIFTED   ASUNDER 201 

IX.  THE  INTERIOR  OF  A  SOUL 215 

X.  SAMSON  AGONISTES 224 

XI.    HOW   IT   STRIKES   A   BY-STANDER...  229 


BOOK   III. 

JFtuft  of  tt>e  Sectr. 

In  the  same  hour  came  forth  fingers  of  a  man's  hand  *  *  *. 
Then  the  king's  countenance  was  changed,  and  his  thoughts  troubled 
him.  — DANIEL. 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  AFTER  THE  EVENT 237 

II.  MATED  OR  CHECKMATED? 247 

III.  JULIET'S  RELIGION 251 

IV.  SIGNS  UPON  THE  ROAD 256 

V.  EDMOND'S  RELIGION 261 

VI.  BEFORE  THE  ALTAR 265 

VII.  EDMOND  AFTER  THE  MARRIAGE 270 


CONTENTS.  IX 

CHAP.  PAGE 

VIII.  JULIET  AFTER  THE  MARRIAGE 274 

IX.  THE  FIELD  OF  BATTLE 277 

X.  HUSBAND  AND  WIFE 281 

XI.  CAUSE  AND  EFFECT 284 

XII.  LEX  TALIONIS 296 

XIII.  THE  LAST  TRIBUNAL 297 

A2 


INTRODUCTION 

BY  THE  EDITOR- 


my  friend  Dr.  V assented  (and  that 

very  reluctantly)  to  my  reiterated  request  that  he 
would  make  known  to  the  public  the  circumstances 
herein  recorded,  I  felt  myself  unable  to  refuse  com 
pliance  with  the  condition  affixed  by  the  doctor  to 
this  consent,  viz.,  that  I  should  arrange  and  edit  these 
papers  for  the  press. 

I  have  done  so  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  and  the 
result  is  before  the  reader.  For  whatever  awkward 
ness  or  ambiguity  there  may  be  in  the  form  of  it,  the 
fault  is  mine.  I  hope  that  this  confession  may  induce 
the  doctor's  gentle  reader  not  to  visit  upon  him  the 
sins  of  his  editor,  but  rather  to  regard  him  with  a 
greater  indulgence. 

The  strange  and  somewhat  painful  confessions 
which  occupy  so  large  a  portion  of  these  pages,  would 
appear  to  have  been  recorded  in  the  hope  that  they 
might  contribute  at  least  some  hints  toward  our  never- 
ending  research  into  the  moral  anatomy  of  man. 

Literature  of  this  kind  is  perhaps  more  congenial 
to  the  speculative  thought  of  Germany  than  to  the 


Xll  INTRODUCTION. 

reading  public  of  England.  Still,  I  am  not  without  a 
hope  that  the  doctor's  narrative  may  find  among  my 
countrymen  some  readers,  whose  opinion  will  justify 
the  present  undertaking  on  the  part  of  his  editor. 
Thus  much  in  my  own  behalf.  More  I  will  not  say, 
lest  I  should  appear  to  be  interpreting,  without  war 
rant,  the  intention  of  a  writer  who  now,  in  his  own 
person,  claims  the  privilege  of  speaking  for  himself. 

OWEN  MEREDITH. 


PART  I. 

THE    DOCTOR. 

Polonius.  This  is  too  long. 

Hamlet.     It  shall  to  the  barber's  with  your  beard. 

Hamlet,  Act  II.,  Scene  2, 


BOOK   I 


Wherewith  she  sits  on  diamond  rocks, 
Sleeking  her  soft  alluring  locks. 

MILTON  —  Comus. 


THE 


RING   OF   AMASIS 


CEAPTEK  I. 
THE  TUNING  OF  THE  INSTEUMENTS. 

THE  first  of  that  series  of  events,  under  the  strong 
impression  of  which  I  am  impelled  to  write  this  book, 
occurred  during  the  month  of  July,  in  the  year  1834 ; 
a  year  memorable,  among  wine-bibbers  at  least,  for  the 
excellence  of  its  vintage.  As  this  book  is  not  a  biog 
raphy,  and  my  part  in  the  events  I  am  about  to  record 
is  only  that  of  a  witness,  I  am  anxious  to  obtrude  my 
own  personality  as  little  as  possible  upon  the  atten 
tion  of  my  reader.  It  will  suffice  for  the  present,  at 
any  rate,  if  he  will  allow  me  to  introduce  myself  to 
his  acquaintance  in  no  more  important  capacity  than 
that  of  a  young  German  doctor,  and  request  him  to 
accompany  me  on  board  the  "Loreley"  steamer  from 
Mainz  to  Koln,  whither,  on  a  bright  July  morning  in 
the  above-mentioned  year,  I  happened  to  be  proceed 
ing  on  my  way  to  Paris,  many  reasons,. hereafter  to 
be  mentioned,  having  induced  me  to  seek  the  French 
capital  with  a  view  to  establishing  myself  there  as  a 
physician. 

Of  the  small  social  phenomena  of  every-day  life, 


vt8*  i  ^  *  ***  *  < «" l '  TIT£  DOCTOR. 

few  are  more  strange  than  that  which  takes  place  on 
the  deck  of  a  passenger  steamer.  It  is  a  miracle,  and 
yet  a  commonplace.  Eailway  travelers  are  merely 
isolated  nomads.  Steam-boat  travelers,  on  the  con 
trary,  though  they  may  have  nothing  in  common,  are 
nevertheless  a  community.  Gathered  together  by  the 
drift  of  accident  from  the  four  corners  of  the  earth — 

"Dropped  down  from  heaven  or  cast  up  from  hell" 

— each  having  suddenly  emerged  into  sight  from  an 
utterly  impenetrable  Past,  and  soon  about  to  pass  out 
of  sight  into  an  equally  incalculable  Future,  it  is  prob 
able  that  no  two  units  of  this  incongruous  aggregate 
ever  met  before,  or  will  ever  meet  again ;  yet  here  in 
this  particular  "confluence  of  two  eternities"  they  do 
meet,  and  there  is  the  wonder  of  it  They  are  near 
neighbors  and  yet  utter  strangers.  How  curiously, 
yet  how  cautiously,  does  each  scrutinize  the  other,  as 
he  inwardly  considers  the  important  question,  "Do  I 
like  the  look  of  him  ?  Shall  I  speak  to  him  ?  or  shall 
it  be  with  us  as  though  he  were  from  Nova  Zembla, 
and  I  from  Timbuctoo?"  All  this  while,  however, 
the  mysterious  process  of  amalgamation  is  going  on, 
just  as  surely  and  methodically  as  if  it  were  concerned 
with  nothing  less  than  the  consolidation  of  a  planetary 
system,  or  the  development  of  European  civilization 
from  the  migration  of  the  races.  The  scattered  atoms 
begin  to  cohere;  the  chaos  to  grow  into  a  cosmos; 
the  crowd  into  a  society — a  society  in  which  both  free 
dom  of  discussion  and  public  opinion  exist.  National 
characteristics,  too,  become  distinctly  apparent  to  the 
studious  eye.  Yonder  group  of  stalwart  English, 


THE   LORELEY.  19 

pillared  in  Scotch  plaid,  and  with  remarkably  windy- 
looking  whiskers,  that  seem  to  have  contracted  in 
some  violent  climate  a  permanent  inclination  to  blow 
away  in  opposite  directions,  are  sternly  consulting 
their  Hurrays,  and  checking  off  in  a  sharp,  business 
like  manner  the  various  "beauties  of  the  Ehine." 
They  look  like  notaries  taking  inventory  of  the  effects 
of  a  fraudulent  bankrupt.  My  more  expansive  fel 
low-countrymen  have  already  established  terms  of 
intimacy  with  each  other.  Presently  all  this  will 
cease.  Before  nightfall  we  shall  be  parceled  off  to  our 
different  destinations ;  and  the  lean  gentleman  in  spec 
tacles,  to  whom  the  fat  gentleman  in  gaiters  is  just 
now  confiding  an  interesting  family  secret,  will  then 
only  be  remembered  by  his  confidential  and  commu 
nicative  friend  as  "a  person  with  whom  I  traveled 
from  Mainz  to  Koln." 

As  soon  as  I  had  finally  lost  sight  of  the  three  gray 
towers  of  the  old  cathedral,  I  seated  myself  on  an  un 
comfortable  green  bench  near  an  uncomfortable  green 
table ;  ordered  a  glass  of  punch — stiff,  to  keep  out  the 
morning  chill ;  buttoned  my  coat  across  my  chest ; 
lighted  my  cigar,  and  so  pertinaciously  followed  the 
bent  of  my  own  reflections,  that  I  think  I  must  have 
been  for  nearly  an  hour  quite  unconscious  of  the  ani 
mated  conversation  which  was  being  carried  on  with 
in  my  hearing  by  a  little  group  of  travelers  who  had 
established  themselves  by  degrees  about  the  bench  on 
which  I  was  seated.  Gradually,  however,  and  quite 
involuntarily,  my  attention  was  attracted  to  their  dis 
cussion  by  the  frequent  repetition  of  a  single  word, 
which  created  upon  me  an  impression  such  as  I  can 


20  THE  DOCTOR. 

only  convey  to  the  mind  of  the  reader  by  a  digression, 
for  which  I  hope,  on  that  account,  to  be  pardoned. 

Most  gentle  reader,  have  you  ever  listened  to  the 
tuning  of  the  instruments  in  a  great  orchestra?  It 
has  no  connection  whatever  with  the  overture,  yet,  in 
my  mind,  it  is  so  inseparably  associated  with  the  over 
ture,  that  I  confess  I  miss  a  certain  sense  of  satisfac 
tion  from  those  concerts  to  which  the  musicians  enter 
with  their  instruments  already  tuned. 

Oh  thou  dim,  mysterious,  narrow  border-land  of  the 
wonderful  world  of  sounds  and  dreams !  Homely  old 
orchestra,  dear  hast  thou  ever  been  to  my  heart! 
thou,  the  single  homely,  honest  thing  amid  all  the 
gilding  and  the  gewgaws,  the  flare  and  glare,  of  many 
a  splendid  theatre ! 

It  is  but  a  meagre  strip  of  dingy  space,  yet  beyond 
it  lies  the  limitless  realm  of  Faery.  And  over  that 
dull-lighted  frontier  wall,  as  over  a  golden  causeway 
bridging  the  starry  splendors,  and  spanning  the  infi 
nite  spaces,  does  this  poor  soul  of  ours  often  mount  up 
from  all  she  is,  and  all  she  must  remain,  upon  the  fret 
ful  nether  earth,  to  all  she  would  be,  all  she  trusts  to 
become,  in  the  serene  completion  of  some  much-need 
ed  world  beyond.  This  is  no  rhapsody.  I  feel  and 
believe  what  I  say ;  and  I  avow  that  it  is  with  reluct 
ance,  almost  with  loathing,  that  I  ever  look  up  from 
the  lowly  barriers  of  the  orchestra  to  those  sumptuous 
boxes  above  it,  where  the  same  bloated  cherubs  eter 
nally  leer  at  each  other  across  the  same  insipid  ara 
besque.  In  those  boxes  sit  the  victims  of  the  great 
world's  great  ennui.  Fine  ladies  and  gentlemen,  who 
"come  late,"  like  Count  Isolani  in  the  play;  but  not 


THE   LORELEY.  21 

like  Isolani,  who,  at  least,  did  not  come  with  empty 
hands.  These  come,  for  the  most  part,  with  empty 
hearts  and  empty  heads.  What  is  Hecuba  to  them, 
or  they  to  Hecuba?  Far  dearer  to  me,  I  confess, 
is  that  dingy  orchestra,  behind  whose  smoky  lamps, 
among  whose  greasy  pulpits,  smudged  and  soiled  with 
the  long,  long  labor  of  how  many  an  arduous  rehears 
al,  I  recognize  the  great  workshop — the  strong  fur 
nace,  wherein  the  mighty  forces  of  Music  toil  and  toss, 
and  seethe  and  heave,  till,  glowing  as  with  strenuous 
heat,  the  molten  melodies  of  golden  sound  flow  smooth 
into  the  sweet  and  stately  mould  of  the  Master's  noble 
Thought. 

How  softly,  one  by  one,  and  with  what  thoughtful 
faces,  made  melancholy  by  so  much  loving  labor,  en 
ter,  each  to  his  nightly  station  behind  his  dusky  mu 
sic-desk,  the  gentle  makers  of  sweet  sounds !  With 
what  tender  care  the  violin  is  lifted  from  its  little 
case !  Doubtless  the  poor  fiddler's  wife  has  no  such 
showy  satin  robe  as  that  from  which  he  fondly  unfolds 
his  cherished  Cremonese.  It  must  be  an  Amati.  But, 
soft  you !  what  is  that  wandering  tone,  pathetic  and 
yet  glad,  like  the  sound  of  some  old  fable  which  we 
loved  to  hear  when  we  were  children?  It  is  the 
horn.  Thank  heaven !  the  true  Waldhorn — no  new 
fangled  mechanical  cornet-a-pistons.  Now  the  sounds 
seem  straining  into  unison.  You  half  distinguish  faint 
indications  of  a  coming  harmony.  Now  they  fall 
asunder.  All  is  discord  and  objurgation.  The  vio 
lin,  upon  its  highest  chord,  is  beginning  to  confide  to 
the  English  horn  strange  news  which  it  has  just  re 
ceived  under  seal  of  strictest  secrecy  from  the  clarionet. 


22  THE   DOCTOR. 

But  the  bass-viol,  with  four  sharp  fifths,  breaks  in  im 
perative,  interrupts  the  babblers,  and  severely  calls 
them  back  to  a  sense  of  duty  and  responsibility.  The 
drowsy  double  bass,  in  lazy  mood,  as  he  leans  against 
the  wall,  begins  to  clear  his  throat.  The  lugubrious 
bassoon  gurgles  twenty  times  over  his  one  poor  little 
part,  making  the  most  of  himself,  like  an  old  opera- 
singer.  The  trumpet,  not  having  to  tune  himself,  is 
doing  his  best  to  put  all  his  neighbors  out  of  tune. 
But  softly,  softly  !  There  sits  yonder,  by  those  two 
brazen  bowls,  stretched  over  with  dusky  parchment, 
one  who  seems  the  master  wizard  of  this  wondrous 
sorcery.  His  brow  is  wrinkled  into  music-scores;  his 
sunken  eyes  are  like  two  hollow  breves;  his  hair  is 
white  and  thin.  Softly,  softly  !  he  taps  with  muffled 
wand  at  the  door  of  the  unknown  world.  And  now, 
sharp  through  the  tuneless  tumult,  as  with  a  will  and 
a  meaning  of  its  own,  strikes  the  shrill,  clear,  long- 
drawn,  silvery  note  of  the  hautboy.  Keen-edged  and 
incisive  the  long  note  streams,  like  a  sunbeam  across 
the  dark,  through  some  chink  of  a  broken  wall.  And 
as  the  dancing  motes  of  golden  dust  rush  into  sudden 
revelation,  and  begin  to  waver  softly  up  and  down 
that  slant,  thin,  shining  track  of  light,  so  now  the  mul 
titude  of  foolish  notes,  smitten  by  the  shrill  high  note 
of  the  hautboy,  forthwith  enter  into  the  strange  signifi 
cance  of  that  sound,  and  assume  a  movement  and  a 
meaning  not  their  own. 

Reader,  this  digression  is  not  idle.  It  closely  con 
cerns  every  incident  of  this  history,  throughout  which, 
if  you  have  a  musical  ear,  you  who  read  will  recog 
nize  again  and  again,  as  I  who  write  have  been  made 


THE  LORELEY,  23 

to  recognize  it,  that  particular,  unmistakable  note  of 
the  hautboy.  Certainly  the  conversation  to  which  I 
am  about  to  refer  was  to  the  full  as  senseless,  and  far 
more  insipid,  than  the  fitful  sounds  from  my  imagin 
ary  orchestra ;  but  throughout  every  phase  of  it,  con 
stantly  recurring,  dominating  all,  giving  to  words  in 
significant  and  idle  a  singular  and  sinister  significance, 
clear,  cold,  uncomfortable,  premonitory  of  things  to 
come,  I  distinctly  distinguished  that  long  sharp  note 
of  the  hautboy. 

For  years,  too,  I  have  been  haunted  by  the  sound 
of  it.  For  years  I  have  heard  it,  after  long  intervals 
of  forgetfulness,  at  moments  when  I  least  expected, 
and  was  least  prepared  to  hear  it.  I  hear  it  now  as 
my  memory  reverts  to  past  events.  Perhaps  I  shall 
continue  to  hear  it  till  I  have  closed  this  narrative, 
which,  by  its  restless  recurrence,  like  an  unlaid  ghost, 
it  has  compelled  me  to  commence. 

In  the  present  instance  it  was  but  a  single  word 
that  thus  impressed  me — a  word,  too,  so  hackneyed 
and  familiar  that  I  can  not  account  for  the  strangely 
unfamiliar  sensation  with  which  it  affected  me. 

And  what  was  that  word,  do  you  ask  ? 

It  was  the  name  of  the  Loreley. 


2-i  THE   DOCTOR. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  LORELEY.— STRANGE  CONDUCT  OF  A  GENTLE 
MAN  IN  BLACK. 

THE  two  small  cannons  with  which,  soon  after  start 
ing,  we  had  saluted  the  Rheinstein,  had  long  since 
been  charged  again,  and  we  were  now  approaching 
the  spot  where  they  were  to  enable  our  little  craft  to 
do  due  honor  to  her  mysterious  godmother,  the  cele 
brated  Loreley.  The  prospect  of  so  soon  passing  the 
abode  of  that  famous  enchantress  had  probably  led 
my  fellow-travelers  into  a  discussion  of  the  peculiar 
character  assigned  to  her  by  the  various  legends  of 
which  she  is  the  heroine. 

A  sentimental  young  lady  with  a  fat  waxen  face 
and  flat  flaxen  hair,  whose  affected  accent  was  of  pure 
Berlin  quality,  had  enthusiastically  undertaken  (no 
doubt  in  the  conviction  that  she  was  thereby  vindica 
ting  the  cause  of  sentiment  and  sensibility)  the  defense 
of  those  anthropophagal  tendencies  attributed  to  that 
melodious  Lady  "Witch,  who,  to  the  great  detriment 
of  the  musical  public  of  former  times,  is  well  known 
to  have  been  in  the  habit  of  terminating  her  concerts 
by  drowning  her  auditory.  This  romantic  young  lady 
expatiated  with  so  much  gusto  upon  the  exquisite 
poetry  and  refinement  of  those  very  objectionable 
proceedings  on  the  part  of  the  Loreley,  that  we  all  felt 
persuaded,  if  she  could  have  sat  upon  a  rock  and  sung 


THE  LOKELEY.  25 

Kuken*  songs,  that  the  whole  of  the  Prussian  army 
would  be  forced  to  take  swimming  lessons.  A  slim 
sub-lieutentant,  however,  who  was  there  on  the  way 
to  his  garrison  at  Cologne,  appeared  to  be  greatly  scan 
dalized  by  the  thought  of  the  disadvantageous  and  un 
graceful  position  in  which  the  lords  of  the  creation 
would  be  placed  when  thus  compelled  to  become  the 
ungainly  imitators  of  the  four-handed  frog.  He  vehe 
mently  objected  to  the  conduct  of  the  Loreley  in  for 
mer  times.  For  his  part,  he  avowed,  he  had  no  taste 
for  that  antiquated  ballad-singer,  whose  behavior  had 
been  simply  abominable,  and  could  only  have  been 
tolerated  under  a  very  imperfect  state  of  the  criminal 
code.  Such  things  were,  happily,  nowadays  quite  im 
possible.  He  could  see  in  them  nothing  at  all  poet 
ical,  but  much  that  infringed  the  police  regulations. 
Any  person  capable  of  calmly  contemplating  the 
agonies  of  a  drowning  man  was  neither  more  nor  less 
than  a  criminal  of  the  worst  description,  who  ought  to 
be — not  applauded,  but  hanged. 

Here  the  conversation  was  suddenly  interrupted  by 
a  loud  clatter.  We  all  turned  round,  startled  and  an 
noyed.  Close  to  the  last  speaker,  a  table,  before  which 
had  been  seated  a  gentleman  dressed  in  black,  and 
of  such  unobtrusive  appearance  that,  although  every 
body  had  seen,  nobody  had  noticed  him,  was  now  vio 
lently  overturned  and  thrown  to  the  ground.  It  was 
impossible  to  suppose,  however,  that  it  had  been  up 
set  by  the  stranger,  who  was  at  that  moment  walking 
away  with  such  profound  composure  that  he  did  not 
even  appear  to  have  noticed  the  noise  which  so  much 
*  A  once  popular  composer  of  sentimental  songs  in  Germany. 

B 


26  THE   DOCTOR. 

disturbed  us.  There  was,  moreover,  an  indescribable 
dignity  and  grace  in  the  appearance  and  movement 
of  this  personage,  which  rendered  it  perfectly  incredi 
ble  that  he  should,  under  any  circumstances,  be  capa 
ble  of  an  awkward  action.  His  countenance  was  of 
that  kind  which  at  once  compels  deference  and  in 
spires  respect.  The  bearing  and  aspect  of  the  whole 
man  were  what  you  would  emphatically  distinguish 
as  unexceptionably  thoroughbred.  There  was  nothing 
in  his  features  or  his  manners  which  repelled,  but,  on 
looking  at  him,  you  instinctively  felt  that  it  would  be 
impossible  to  be  familiar  with  him  unless  he  gracious 
ly  permitted  you  to  be  so.  A  vulgar  or  insolent  fel 
low  would  not,  you  felt  sure,  be  able  to  insult  that 
man.  As  all  that  is  vulgar  and  mean  eludes  and  es 
capes  the  presence  of  an  elevated  and  select  nature  so 
completely  that  such  a  nature  can  not  even  take  cog 
nizance  of  the  existence  of  what  is  ignoble,  so  I  sup 
pose  there  is  in  the  perfect  manners  of  the  great,  and 
the  habitual  consciousness  of  an  unapproachably  high 
social  position,  something  which  enables  the  few  who 
possess  it  to  pass  through  the  crowd  without  ever 
coming  into  contact  with  it.  This  man  was  not  only 
unapproachable,  he  was  almost  invisible.  He  was  the 
image  of  plastic  repose.  Nothing  about  him  was  rest 
less,  or  fidgety,  or  ill  at  ease.  It  was  only  by  the  in 
direct  contrast  of  this  extreme  tranquillity  both  in 
dress  and  manner  that  you  unconsciously  distin 
guished  him  from  the  ordinary  mass  of  vulgar  people 
who  can  not  ever  sit  still  or  keep  themselves  quiet. 
His  features  were  singularly  faultless,  but  nobody 
would  have  ever  thought  of  calling  him  a  handsome 


THE   LOKELEY.  27 

man.  You  knew,  but  you  did  not  notice  that  beauty 
of  face.  His  countenance  showed  neither  gayety  nor 
melancholy.  It  was  smooth,  and  impassive  as  mar 
ble  ;  and,  indeed,  so  inexpressive,  that  even  when  you 
saw  him  you  did  not  seem  to  see  him ;  so  that,  as  he 
now  walked  away  from  us,  it  was  only  by  an  effort 
of  memory  that  we  realized  the  fact  of  his  having  so 
long  been  present  to  our  sight.  Nobody  spoke  to 
him,  nobody  spoke  of  him,  yet  every  body  must  have 
observed  him ;  for  when  he  afterward  became  the  sub 
ject  of  our  conversation,  there  appeared  to  have  been 
a  sort  of  tacit  coincidence  and  agreement  in  our  pre 
vious  and  separate  observations,  and  we  all  called  him 
"the  Gentleman  in  Black." 

He  walked  away  from  the  capsized  table  so  quietly 
and  so  unconcerned,  that  one  of  our  party,  in  perfect 
astonishment  at  the  inexplicable  fall  of  that  awkward 
piece  of  furniture,  exclaimed  to  the  waiter,  who  was 
busily  restoring  the  sprawling  thing  to  its  legs,  "Hol 
loa  !  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  Have  you  ghosts 
about  here?" 

The  gentleman  who  made  this  inquiry  would  no 
doubt  have  been  a  believer  in  table-turning  if  Mr. 
Home  had  emigrated  to  Europe  in  the  year  1834. 

"  Well,"  said  another  who  was  sitting  beside  me, 
"  if  it  was  a  ghost,  I  have  seen  him,  and  he  was  dress 
ed  in  an  infernally  well-made  suit  of  clothes,  such  as 
none  but  the  devil's  tailor  knows  the  cut  of." 

"Ah!"  cried  the  rest  of  the  party  all  in  a  breath; 
"  is  it  possible  ?  The  Gentleman  in  Black !" 

To  this  explanation  of  the  miracle  I  strongly  ob 
jected.  It  was  quite  illogical,  I  asserted,  and  there- 


28  THE  DOCTOR. 

fore,  to  me  at  least,  impossible,  to  assume  that  the  per 
sonage  who  had  just  left  us  was  capable  of  an  awk 
ward,  not  to  say  an  ill-bred  act.  My  ghost-seer,  how 
ever,  assured  us  all  that  he  had  distinctly  seen  the 
Gentleman  in  Black  start  up  suddenly  like  a  wooden 
figure  pushed  by  a  spring,  and  in  so  doing  upset  the 
table,  just  as  the  sub-lieutenant  was  laying  down  the 
law  on  cases  of  salvage.  As  on  the  strength  of  this 
positive  testimony  I  found  the  majority  entirely  op 
posed  to  my  theory  of  moral  evidence,  I  soon  relin 
quished  the  discussion  and  withdrew  from  the  debate. 


THE  LOEELEY.  29 


CHAPTEE  III. 

I  DRAW  MY  OWN  CONCLUSIONS  ABOUT  THE   GEN 
TLEMAN  IN  BLACK. 

WE  were  now  approach.}  ng  the  Loreley.  I  saun 
tered  to  the  forepart  of  the  vessel  in  order  to  secure  a 
good  view  of  that  famous  rock,  once  so  fatal,  now  so 
innocent.  As  I  passed  by  the  funnel,  I  again  noticed 
the  mysterious  stranger  about  whom  we  had  all  been 
talking.  He  was  standing  alone,  close  to  the  little 
step-ladder  which  had  just  been  uncorded  from  the 
bulwarks,  and  was  now  slanted  forward  in  readiness 
to  be  let  down  for  any  passengers  that  might  be  wait 
ing  at  the  next  station.  He  stood  erect  with  folded 
arms,  and  appeared  to  be  contemplating  the  play  of 
the  violent  water  as  it  hissed,  and  seethed,  and  bub 
bled  about  the  beating  paddle.  As  I  watched  that 
calm  and  imperturbable  eye  fixed  upon  the  boiling 
spray  beneath,  I  could  not  help  wondering  how  the 
passions  could  so  completely  desert  the  face  of  man, 
to  lavish  upon  inanimate  nature  at  least^he  semblance 
of  intense  emotion.  The  words  of  the  Prussian  sub 
lieutenant  rushed  into  my  mind.  In  order  to  remain 
true  to  his  nature,  how  should  this  man  conduct  him 
self  if  a  fellow-creature  were  drowning  under  his  eyes? 
Would  he  shout  for  help  ?  Would  he  exhort  and 
stimulate  others  to  the  rescue  by  shaking  a  purse  full 
of  sequins  in  their  ears  like  the  count  in  Burger's  bal- 


30  THE   DOCTOR. 

lad,  Von  Braven  Mann  ?  But  how  could  he  do  this 
without  instantaneously  abdicating  that  prerogative 
of  lofty  and  unassailable  tranquillity  which  was  pro 
claimed  in  every  feature  of  his  serene  and  severely 
beautiful  countenance,  in  every  outline  of  his  self-com 
posed  and  stately  figure?  It  is  told  in  an  old  story 
that  a  mortal  was  once  admitted  to  the  assembly  of 
the  gods.  He  was  informed  that,  of  the  noble  and 
majestic  forms  which  he  there  beheld,  one  only  was  a 
man ;  and  he  was  asked  if  he  could  recognize  his  fel 
low  mortal.  Amid  the  true  gods,  the  one  man,  al 
though  he  wore  golden  sandals  and  a  purple  fillet,  and 
drank  nectar  with  the  rest  of  the  Olympians,  was  at 
once  detected  by  the  restlessness  of  his  eyes.  Now,  as 
I  silently  studied  the  face  of  the  man  before  me,  I  felt 
that  if  one  line  of  those  marble  features  were  to  change, 
the  entire  expression  which  commanded  my  admira 
tion  would  fall  at  once  like  a  mere  mask,  and  be  de 
tected  as  a  superficial  grimace  at  the  mercy  of  any 
rude  chance  that  might  choose  to  pluck  it  away.  The 
soul  wants  not  clothes ;  but  if  she  once  puts  them  on, 
they  should  so  finely  fit  her  that  she  need  never  take 
them  off. 

Men  with  such  faces  as  this  should  never  change 
countenance,  *for  fear  they  become  contemptible. 
"No,"  I  concluded;  "that  man  must  remain  un 
moved  by  the  sight  of  a  drowning  creature." 

The  logic  of  this  conclusion  was  irresistible,  but  I 
could  not  reconcile  myself  to  accept  it.  I  was  glad 
when  the  cannons  were  discharged,  and  the  explosion 
diverted  my  attention  from  the  stranger. 

The  Loreley  was  not  slow  to  return  thanks  for  this 


THE   LORELEY.  31 

salute.  For  my  part,  I  even  found  her  too  garrulous. 
Any  little  real  miracle  would  have  pleased  me  better 
than  that  miraculously  natural  echo.  No  subtle  song 
came  winding  from  the  wizard  rock  to  enmesh  the 
souls  of  men  in  the  folly  of  a  fatal  bliss.  Alas !  no 
such  songs  are  wanted  now.  The  sorcery  is  fled  from 
the  earth ;  the  folly  remains. 


32  THE   DOCTOR, 


CHAPTER  IY. 

UNFORESEEN  OCCURRENCE  AT  SAINT  GOAR. — THE 
GENTLEMAN  IN  BLACK  DISTINGUISHES  HIMSELF. 

THE  bell  sounded  from  St.  Goar.  The  steamer 
slacked  speed,  and  presently  a  little  boat  put  out  from 
the  land.  The  only  passengers  it  brought  us  were  a 
woman  and  a  child.  The  woman  seemed  to  be  of  the 
middle  class,  and  the  child,  a  little  boy,  who  was  ap 
parently  asleep  on  her  lap,  might  have  been  about 
six  years  old.  Our  captain  shouted,  "  Ease  her !  Stop 
her!"  from  the  paddle-box.  The  paddles  stopped 
their  play,  and  the  vessel  drifted  leisurely  with  the 
stream.  The  vast  waves  that  welled  up  from  under 
her  flanks,  as  if  they  were  surprised  at,  and  ashamed 
of,  their  own  existence  in  that  calm  water,  dashed  off 
in  a  desperate  hurry  to  reach  the  shore,  and  there  hide 
themselves  among  the  rushes.  The  little  boat  danced, 
and  rocked,  and  dipped  among  these  unnatural  undu 
lations. 

My  thoughts  were  still  coquetting  with  the  Lady 
Witch,  when  I  was  startled  by  a  sharp  and  piercing 
scream  from  the  water. 

"  Jesu  Maria !  my  child,  my  child !" 

At  the  same  moment  all  the  passengers  rushed  in 
violent  agitation  to  that  side  of  the  vessel  where  I 
was  standing  by  the  step-ladder.  I  at  once  saw  that 


THE   LOKELEY.  33 

the  little  boat  had  capsized ;  but  how  this  had  hap 
pened  I  could  only  guess. 

It  appeared  that  the  boatman,  in  attempting  to  catch 
the  rope  from  the  steamer,  had  lost  his  balance,  and  in 
the  struggle  of  his  fall  had  brought  his  clumsy  and 
rickety  little  craft  on  her  beam-ends.  I  saw  him 
hauled  up  the  sides  of  the  vessel,  while  a  sailor  who 
had  leaped  from  the  ladder  succeeded  in  rescuing  the 
poor  woman  just  at  the  moment  when  she  was  being 
sucked  under  the  paddle-wheel,  and  must,  but  for  this 
timely  rescue,  have  soon  perished. 

But  the  child  ?  Where  was  the  child  ?  The  steam 
er  had  drifted  some  way  down  with  the  current,  and 
we  could  only  see  a  long  way  off  a  small  straw  hat 
floating  smoothly  on  the  surface  of  the  stream,  with 
its  bright  blue  ribbon  fluttering  in  the  wind. 

After  an  instant  of  intense  silence,  however,  there 
was  a  suppressed  groan  of  anxiety  from  all  on  board. 
We  could  distinctly  see  the  poor  little  fellow  himself 
struggling  desperately,  and  beating  vainly  with  his 
tiny  hands  the  headstrong  water.  His  strength  seemed 
to  give  way.  He  submerged,  and  we  lost  sight  of  him. 
No !  now  there  is  a  loud  cry  from  every  soul  on  board ; 
the  little  golden  head  reappears  once  more  above  the 
surface  of  the  stream. 

And  now,  again,  there  is  a  deep,  agonizing  silence. 
Every  eye  is  strained,  every  face  is  sharply  stretched 
in  one  direction ;  for  in  that  direction  two  dark  arms 
of  an  audacious  swimmer  can  now  be  seen  slowly  cut 
ting  the  waves. 

Quite  calmly,  quite  at  his  ease,  with  no  haste,  no 
precipitation,  making  each  stroke  with  mathematical 
B  2 


34  THE  DOCTOR. 

precision,  as  though  he  were  swimming  solely  for  his 
own  pleasure,  yet  nevertheless  with  steady  strength, 
as  we  all  can  see,  leisurely  gaining  head  against  the 
sturdy  current,  with  perfect  placidity  and  undisturbed 
self-composure,  slowly,  methodically,  onward  swims 
the  dark  swimmer.  I  must  say  there  was  something 
almost  provoking  in  the  extreme  tranquillity,  not  to 
say  indifference  of  his  movements,  upon  which  we  all 
felt  that  the  life  of  a  human  being  depended ;  and  the 
singular  and  instantaneous  accuracy  with  which  the 
common  sentiment  of  a  crowd  is  always  impressed 
upon  the  mind  of  each  of  its  members  made  me  con 
scious  that  at  that  moment  the  swimmer  was  an  ob 
ject  rather  of  indignant  impatience  than  of  grateful 
admiration.  We  all  felt  that  he  was  not  putting  forth 
half  the  strength  which  he  obviously  possessed. 

Now,  now !  he  is  within  but  a  few  arm-lengths  of 
the  sinking  child.  One  last  effort,  one  bold  stroke, 
and  the  poor  child  is  saved  !  No !  -Unconcerned,  he 
has  let  the  last  desperate  chance  escape  him.  One 
stretch  of  that  strong  arm  would  have  done  it.  One 
grasp  of  that  firm  hand  might  have  easily  seized  the 
last  patch  of  the  blue  blouse  which  has  now  sunk 
from  our  sight.  Too  late !  The  child  has  disap 
peared.  There  is  a  groan  of  angry  sorrow  from  the 
crowd.  But  it  can  not  reach  the  swimmer.  He  too 
has  disappeared  from  our  gaze.  My  eyes  are  still 
fixed  upon  the  spot  where  we  last  saw  him.  There 
is  a  silence  of  intolerable  suspense.  You  can  only 
hear  the  suppressed  breathing  of  the  crowd  all  round, 
and  the  careless  sighing  of  the  stream  beneath. 

That  silence  seemed  as  though  it  would  last  for- 


THE   LORELEY.  35 

ever ;  but  after  a  few  moments,  which  felt  like  many 
ages,  a  loud  shout  of  exultation  bursts  forth.  Far,  far 
away  from  the  spot  on  which  all  eyes  were  fixed— 
far  away  he  rises  again.  They  rise  again.  "  Saved, 
thank  God  1"  is  the  universal  exclamation. 

Now  he  is  swimming  back  to  the  steamer  more 
leisurely  even  than  before.  He  leans  upon  the  cur 
rent,  and  lets  it  quietly  bear  him  along  with  it.  He 
is  lazily  pushing  his  rescued  burden  before  him  as  if 
it  were  a  dead  thing.  He  gives  it  only  an  occasional 
impulsion  with  his  hand  whenever  it  seems  to  inter 
fere  with  the  comfort  of  his  easy  and  convenient  prog 
ress.  And  only  an  occasional  convulsive  movement 
in  the  limbs  of  the  little  body  shows  that  life  is  not 
yet  extinct.  He  seems  to  care  nothing  for  the  child 
he  has  saved,  nothing  for  the  intense  interest  of  which 
he  is  himself  the  object.  He  appears  utterly  uncon 
cerned. 

And  thus  the  Gentleman  in  Black  regains  the 
steamer. 

All  this  passed  rapidly  under  my  eyes.  The  whole 
occurrence  occupied  only  a  few  moments  of  time— 
they  appeared  an  eternity.  With  that  keen  insight 
which  belongs  to  strong  emotion,  I  saw  clearly  into 
the  inmost  mind  of  all  those  who  were  around  me  at 
that  moment.  I  recognized  on  every  countenance 
my  own  agony ;  I  detected  in  every  eye  my  own 
thought.  In  all  that  crowd  there  was  only  one  face 
on  which  I  saw  not  the  reflection  of  my  own  feelings ; 
only  one  eye  in  which  I  could  discover  nothing  akin 
to  the  sensations  either  of  myself  or  my  fellow-travel 
ers.  And  suddenly,  thrilled  as  I  was  by  the  unutter- 


36  THE   DOCTOR. 

able  regard  of  that  calm,  cold,  inexplicable  eye,  I  again 
seemed  to  hear,  with  the  same  uncomfortable  sensa 
tion,  sharp  and  shrill,  from  some  undistinguishable 
world  of  inner  sounds,  the  long-drawn  note  of  the 
hautboy. 


THE   LORELEY.  37 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  LORELEY  IN  PERSON. 

YES,  it  was  she.  Angels  and  ministers  of  grace, 
defend  us!  She — no  dream,  but  fairer  far  than  all 
that  dreams  can  fashion  —  she  herself,  the  Loreley ! 
Beautiful,  but  with  a  chill  and  stony  beauty,  like  the 
beauty  of  Medusa,  that  curdled  the  blood  and  froze 
the  veins  of  men  ;  calm,  uncompassionate,  pitiless,  she 
was  gazing  (and  I  now  knew  she  had  long  been  gaz 
ing)  upon  this  death-struggle  for  life  as  though  the" 
agonies  of  it  were  to  her  the  commonest  matter  of 
course,  and  the  result  of  it  a  subject  of  supreme  indif 
ference.  It  had  been  sung  to  me  in  songs,  I  had  read 
it  in  legends,  I  had  dreamed  it  in  dreams  ;  I  could  not 
now  mistake  that  gaze.  It  was  the  gaze  of  the  Lore- 
ley.  She  sat  as  though  she  had  nothing  to  do  but  to 
sleek  her  beautiful  body  in  the  sunshine,  while  her 
victims  were  gurgling  their  stifled  death-cries  in  the 
dreadful  gulfs  far  down.  She  sat,  I  say,  high  above 
the  silly  crowd ;  alone,  upon  the  hood  of  the  gangway 
near  which  I  was  standing ;  isolated,  unnoticed,  indif 
ferent,  even  as  the  Lady  Witch  upon  her  rock.  Her 
hidden  arms  drew  tight  across  her  bosom  her  long 
silken  scarf,  which,  thus  closely  draped  about  her,  left 
distinctly  outlined  the  noble  contour  of  her  perfect 
shoulders.  Now  that  I  was  suddenly  made  aware  of 
her  presence,  I  became,  at  the  same  moment,  instinct- 


38  THE  DOCTOR. 

ively  conscious  that  she  had  long  been  there,  and  that 
I  had  all  this  while  been  standing  within  the  magic 
of  that  strange,  cold,  beautiful  regard,  and  under  the 
ghostlike  gaze  of  that  clear,  spiritual  eye.  So  indif 
ferent  to,  and  so  abstracted  from  the  crowd  around  us 
— so  unlike  to,  and  so  dissociate  from  all  others  did 
that  strange  woman  appear,  that  in  now  beholding 
her  I  at  once  realized  the  conviction  of  how  impossi 
ble  it  would  have  been  for  me  to  have  noticed  her 
presence  until  (as  in  the  case  of  the  Gentleman  in 
Black)  some  accident  had  forced  my  consciousness  out 
of  the  limits  of  that  trivial  sphere  within  which  those 
two  apparitions  must,  I  felt  persuaded,  in  obedience 
to  every  law  of  their  nature,  remain  invisible. 
~  A  new  boat  had  now  been  sent  out  from  the  steam 
er,  and  the  child,  apparently  lifeless,  was  picked  up 
and  brought  back  to  its  mother.  The  strong  swim 
mer,  by  whose  exertions  the  little  boy  had  been  re 
covered,  refused  all  assistance  from  the  boat,  and  swam 
slowly  after  it  toward  the  steamer.  Nobody  any  lon 
ger  paid  the  least  attention  to  his  proceedings.  And 
while  the  crowd  on  deck  gathered  with  noisy  but 
heartfelt  congratulation  round  the  poor  mother,  the 
savior  of  her  child  entered  the  vessel  unperceived. 

I  myself  had  not  noticed  his  return.  I  remained 
spellbound  and  immovable  under  the  melancholy  eye 
of  the  Loreley ;  and  I  was  still  absorbed  in  the  in 
tense  contemplation  of  the  perplexing  passionlessness 
of  that  Gorgonian  face,  when  I  suddenly  perceived 
that  he  was  standing  before  her. 

But  how  changed  were  his  features !  Now,  for  the 
first  time,  I  fully  recognized  all  the  noble  beauty  of 


THE   LORELEY.  39 

them ;  for  now  those  features  were  animated,  for  the 
first  time  since  I  had  seen  them,  by  an  expression,  and 
that  expression  was  one  of  mute  but  passionate  pray 
er.  The  whole  countenance  worked  and  labored  with 
the  concentrated  action  of  internal  forces.  The  pain 
ful  quivering  of  the  lip,  the  deep  imploring  of  the 
earnest  eye,  all  were  agonizingly  eloquent  with  the 
pathos  of  that  unuttered  appeal.  And  calmly,  cold 
ly,  upon  that  imploring  face,  from  the  lofty  heights 
of  her  chilly  self-isolation,  the  beautiful  Loreley  look 
ed  down  in  silence,  with  the  cruel  dead  tranquillity  of 
her  empty,  unanswering,  extinguished  eye.  Then,  as 
with  a  supreme  effort,  from  the  long-laboring  lip  of 
the  man  before  her,  a  voice,  broken  and  hollow,  inar 
ticulately  muttered  these  words — "Still  never?" 

And  sharp,  freezing,  and  incisive  as  the  long  shrill 
note  of  the  hautboy  was  the  answer  of  the  Loreley — 
"Never!"  It  sounded — (that  short  stern  word,  that 
meant  so  much,  mocking  the  word  it  answered) — like 
a  ghostly  echo  in  a  hollow,  empty  ruin,  where  nothing 
but  such  an  echo  any  longer  dwells. 

For  a  moment  the  face  of  the  man  was  swathed  in 
a  livid  pallor  as  of  death.  The  next  moment  those 
marble  features  had  completely  resumed  their  habitual 
repose,  and  he  disappeared  down  the  staircase  into  the 
cabin,  noiseless,  calmly,  almost  imperceptibly,  as  when, 
some  hours  before,  I  had  seen  him  leave  the  table  just 
as  it  clattered  down  at  my  feet,  and  so  greatly  startled 
us  all. 

At  that  moment  I  was  called  away  to  attend  to  the 
child,  and  thus  lost  sight  of  the  Loreley.  This  was 
my  first  actual  practice  as  a  physician.  A  glance  at 


40  THE   DOCTOR. 

my  little  patient  sufficed  to  assure  me  that  only  very 
simple  restoratives  were  needed.  And,  having  spoken 
a  few  words  of  encouragement  and  reassurance  to  the 
mother  of  the  lad,  I  was  turning  away  to  give  the  nec 
essary  directions  to  the  steward,  when  a  gray-headed 
valet-de-charribre,  the  perfection  of  neat  decorum,  pre 
sented  himself  before  us,  and,  bowing  to  the  poor  wom 
an  with  that  deference  which  is  only  manifested  by 
the  servants  of  persons  of  the  highest  breeding  to 
those  whom  they  assume  to  be  of  lower  rank  than 
their  masters,  respectfully  requested  the  good  woman, 

in  the  name  of  the  Count  and  Countess  R ,  to  do 

the  count  and  countess  the  favor  to  join  them  in  the 
private  cabin,  and  to  bring  with  her  the  little  boy,  for 
whose  comfort  and  refreshment  every  preparation  had 
been  made. 

Thus  I  finally  lost  sight  of  the  four  human  beings 
who  were  in  any  way  associated  in  my  mind  with  the 
mysterious  side  of  that  day's  events ;  and,  once  more 
on  the  deck  of  the  "  Loreley"  steamer,  the  great  Com 
monplace  resumed  "her  ancient,"  but  not  "solitary 
reign." 


THE  LORELEY.  41 


CHAPTER  VI. 

PUBLIC  OPINION. — WE  BEACH  COLOGNE. — THE 
OLD  CRANE  ON  THE  OLD  TOWER,  AND  WHAT  IT 
SEEMS  TO  BE  SAYING. 

PUBLIC  opinion  on  board  the  "Loreley"  steamer 
was  much  excited  by  the  recent  occurrence.  Every 
body  was  asking,  "Who  is  the  Gentleman  in  Black?" 
The  steward,  who  was  naturally  our  chief  source  of 
information  on  this  subject,  could  tell  us  nothing  more 
than  that  the  name  of  the  strange  gentleman,  whose 
conduct  had  excited  such  conflicting  feelings  and  in 
spired  so  much  curiosity  among  rny  fellow-travelers, 

was  Count  Edmond  R ;  that  he  was  the  possessor 

of  an  immense  majorat  in 'Prussian  Silesia,  and  the 
last  descendant  of  a  well-known  and  very  ancient 
family. 

The  mysterious  Loreley  thus  receded  from  the  lu 
minous  realms  of  Fable,  and  only  revealed  herself  to 
the  common  light  of  day  as  a  Silesian  countess !  The 
stern  and  terrible  sorceress,  by  whose  spells  I  had. 
been  so  magically  mastered,  was,  by  indisputable  evi 
dence,  neither  more  nor  less  than  the  wife  of  Count 

Edmond  R .     Others,  however,  besides   myself, 

had  noticed  the  extraordinary,  and  more  than  human 
indifference  which  had  characterized  the  conduct  of 
the  Witch,  now  reduced  to  the  rank  assigned  to  her 
by  the  Almanac  de  Cfotha.  She  too,  the  wife  of  so 


42  THE  DOCTOR. 

noble  a  husband !  a  man  of  whom  any  woman  (so  we 
all  averred)  might  well  be  proud !  How  had  it  been 
possible  for  that  woman  to  watch  with  an  eye  so  cal 
lous,  and  a  countenance  of  such  avowed  and  heartless 
unconcern,  the  noble  conduct  of  the  count,  when,  at 
the  imminent  risk  of  his  life,  he  swam  to  the  rescue 
of  the  drowning  child  ?  As  you  may  well  conceive, 
all  the  women  vehemently  condemned  the  countess, 
and  loudly  extolled  the  count. 

In  particular,  the  sentimental  young  lady  of  the 
waxen-flaxen  charms,  who  that  morning  had  so  warm 
ly  defended  the  cause  of  the  imaginary  Loreley,  and 
elaborately  extolled  the  poetry  and  sublimity  of  the 
various  misdeeds  attributed  to  that  duly-patented  and 
well-established  witch,  was  now  emphatic,  not  to  say 
hysterical,  in  the  expression  of  her  indignation  at  the 
heartless  affectation  of  the  countess. 

I  may  mention  by  the  way  that  this  young  lady,  at 
the  moment  of  the  recent  catastrophe,  had  been  duly 
careful  not  to  let  slip  so  favorable  and  appropriate  an 
occasion  for  a  little  shrieking  and  fainting,  which,  on 
the  whole,  had  been  tolerably  successful.  The  Prus 
sian  sub-lieutenant,  for  his  part,  declared  that  the 
count  had  shown  great  incompetence,  and  was  quite 
.undeserving  of  the  ignorant  applause  which  had  been 
lavished  upon  his  supposed  skill  and  coolness.  He 
assured  us  that,  but  for  the  respect  he  paid  to  his  uni 
form,  and  if  he  had  not  had  straps  to  his  trowsers — 
(for  indeed  he  might  say,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
he  had  positively  envied  the  gentleman  on  the  Civil 
List) — he  would  have  shown  us  all  the  proper  way 
of  saving  a  drowning  person.  That  the  child  had 


THE   LORELEY.  43 

been  actually  saved  was,  he  assured  us,  entirely  due 
to  the  merest  chance  in  the  world ;  or  rather,  indeed, 
if  the  truth  must  be  told,  to  his  own  perspicuity  and 
energy,  since  he  it  was  that  had  given  express  orders 
to  send  a  boat  to  the  swimmer,  whereby  the  child  had 
been  taken  up,  though  out  of  vanity,  as  every  body 
could  see,  the  count  had  refused  for  himself  the  prof 
fered  assistance.  In  all  such  cases  it  was  absolutely 
necessary  to  follow  a  quite  different  method  from  that 
which  had  been  adopted  in  the  present  instance.  It 
was  a  mercy  that  the  result  had  not  been  fatal.  He 
had  himself  studied  the  true  principles  of  natation  at 
the  Schwimm-Schule  at  Potsdam.  For  the  practice 
of  these  principles,  however,  it  was  necessary  to  have 
a  special  costume  properly  adapted  for  the  purpose. 

These  views  were  opposed  by  a  merchant  from 
Hamburg,  who  observed  that  the  chief  danger  to  be 
apprehended  in  all  attempts  to  rescue  a  drowning  per 
son  exists  in  the  frantic  efforts  made  by  the  drowning 
man  to  save  himself,  or  in  the  involuntary  cramps 
and  convulsions  which,  so  long  as  consciousness  lasts, 
not  unfrequently  impede  the  efforts  of  the  rescuing 
hand,  and  are  known  to  have  often  proved  fatal  to 
both  parties.  The  merit  of  the  count  was  in  the  calm 
and  composure  which  he  had  had  the  presence  of 
mind  to  preserve.  Every  body  could  see  that  he 
might  have  hastened  his  speed,  and  that  it  would  have 
been  easy  for  him  to  have  reached  the  child  before  it 
sank.  But  he  rightly  waited  till  the  little  limbs  were 
exhausted ;  and  so  accurately  calculated  his  distance, 
that  the  body  must  have  reached  him  under  the  water 
in  an  exact  line  with  the  point  at  which  he  dived  to 


44  THE  DOCTOR. 

secure  it.  This  explanation  was  received  as  so  satis 
factory,  that  the  Prussian  sub-lieutenant,  twisting  his 
mustaches,  growled  out  something  about  Burger  Phil- 
ister,  and  stalked  away  with  a  loud  clanking  of  spurs 
and  sabre. 

The  countess,  however,  was  not  without  her  defend 
ers  among  the  men,  who,  on  the  strength  of  the  opin 
ion  offered  by  the  Hamburg  merchant,  readily  adopt 
ed  the  assumption  that  the  count  was  no  doubt  so  ad 
mirable  and  experienced  a  swimmer  that  his  wife  need 
have  been  under  no  reasonable  apprehension  for  his 
safety. 

At  this  point  in  the  discussion,  one  of  my  fellow- 
travelers,  who  till  then  had  not  joined  in  the  conver 
sation,  informed  us  that  some  years  ago  he  had  had 
occasion  to  visit  Heligoland,  and  that  he  had  there 
heard  the  name  of  Count  K frequently  mention 
ed  as  that  of  a  most  intrepid  and  unrivaled  swimmer. 
The  feats  attributed  to  the  count  by  the  fishermen 
along  that  coast  appeared  indeed  almost  incredible. 
One  of  his  exploits  in  particular  was  much  talked  of 
at  the  time. 

One  dark  and  tempestuous  night  a  fishing-boat  was 
wrecked  within  sight  of  land,  and  the  alarm  was  given 
along  the  coast  that  all  souls  on  board  were  in  immi 
nent  danger.  The  boldest  fisherman,  however,  did 
not  dare  to  brave  the  breakers  that  night,  and  no  man 
could  be  found  who  was  willing  in  such  a  storm  to 
expose  his  life  to  the  hazard  of  an  enterprise  so  abso 
lutely  desperate.  Suddenly  a  mysterious  stranger  ap 
peared  among  the  terrified  crowd.  He  said  nothing, 
he  betrayed  no  emotion,  but  every  body  seemed  to 


THE   LORELEY.  45 

feel  the  presence  of  a  superior  will,  and  silently  made 
way  for  him.  He  quietly  picked  up  five  of  the  great 
cables  which  had  been  hopelessly  flung  by  in  the  con 
viction  of  the  impossibility  of  attempting  a  rescue. 
With  the  same  composure  and  undisturbed  precision, 
he  firmly  bound  together  with  a  small  cord  the  ends 
of  the  five  ropes,  and,  taking  the  cord  in  his  left  hand, 
he  silently  plunged  into  the  sea.  In  this  way  he  suc 
ceeded  in  saving  the  five  souls  that  were  on  board  the 
sinking  craft.  That  stranger  was  Count  Edmond 
E .  And  as,  by  a  sort  of  instantaneous  tacit  in 
stinct,  we  had  all  of  us  this  morning  given  to  the  mys 
terious  count  the  somewhat  sinister  title  of  "  the  Gen 
tleman  in  Black"  so  the  poor  fisherfolk  of  Heligoland, 
ever  after  the  event  of  that  night,  distinguished  the 
heroic  stranger  by  the  more  grateful  appellation  of 
u  Newfoundland" 

Hence,  no  doubt,  the  indifference  evinced  by  the 
countess  on  the  present  occasion. 

We  all  very  cheerfully  accepted  this  explanation 
of  the  lady's  conduct,  till,  to  our  no  small  astonish 
ment,  a  certain  very  portly  Koniglich-Preussischer- 
Wirklicher  -  Geheimer  -  Ober  -  Bau  -  Eath  declared  that 
the  whole  of  Silesia  knew  perfectly  well  that  the 
countess  was  touched  in  her  mind. 

This  mental  affection,  he  presumed,  must  be  incur 
able,  as  he  had  never  heard  that  any  sort  of  treatment 

had  been  tried  for  it.  The  Count  and  Countess  E 

lived  in  extreme  seclusion  all  the  year  round  at  the 
count's  majorat  about  ten  miles  from  Breslau.  They 
saw  nobody  •  nobody  ever  saw  them.  There  was  no 
direct  heir  to  the  estate,  which  would  lapse,  at  the 


46  THE  DOCTOR. 

death  of  the  count,  to  the  collateral  branch;  and, 
therefore,  nobody  in  Silesia  was  at  all  concerned  about 
their  affairs. 

This  strange  and  unlooked-for  announcement  si 
lenced  all  farther  conversation  upon  the  subject.  The 
little  group  of  talkers  soon  afterward  broke  up  and 
dispersed,  for  we  were  approaching  the  end  of  our 
journey,  and  every  body  except  myself  seemed  satis 
fied  to  dismiss  the  matter  from  their  minds. 

What  were  precisely  my  own  feelings  as  I  walked 
musingly  back  to  the  bows  of  the  boat,  and  leaned 
over  the  yellowing  waters,  it  would  be  hard  to  say. 

Deep  under  the  death-white  shroud  of  a  profound 
and  settled  melancholy,  which  seemed  to  have  per 
manently  swathed  in  its  cold  and  colorless  beauty 
the  faultless  features  of  the  countess,  my  heart  had 
detected  the  buried  presence  of  an  unutterable  sorrow. 
One  moment  of  luminous  agony  had  revealed  to  me 
in  the  dark  eye  of  the  count  the  torture  of  a  soul 
surely  smitten  by  no  earthly  hand.  "  No,"  I  said  to 
myself.  "Of  the  secret  of  these  two  souls,  whatever 
that  may  be,  I  have  at  least  seen  enough  to  feel  sure 
that  it  involves  them  both  in  the  anguish  of  an  irre 
concilable  destiny.1'1 

The  accident  of  the  day  now  nearly  closed  had  so 
long  delayed  the  course  of  our  little  steamer,  that  the 
sunset  was  far  spent  when  we  passed  slowly  under  the 
darkening  walls  of  the  old  imperial  city  of  Cologne. 
The  evening  was  hushed  and  sleepy.  Dreamlike  we 
seemed  to  glide  into  the  shadow  of  the  ancient  town. 
Above  the  deep  and  drowsy  orange  light  that  was 
now  burning  low  down  in  the  wasting  west,  rose,  dark 


THE  LORELEY.  47 

and  calm  into  the  airy  twilight  of  the  upper  sky,  the 
massive  tower  of  the  huge  Cathedral.  And  high  upon 
the  summit  of  that  tall,  dark  tower — high,  and  still, 
and  solitary,  as  some  old  wizard  on  the  watch,  stood 
the  giant  crane,  which  is  ever  the  first  object  to  greet 
the  eye  of  the  traveler  who  enters  Cologne. 

Lonely  and  aloof  under  the  darkening  sky  it  stood, 
with  its  long,  gaunt  arm  stretched  out,  as  though  in 
wild  appeal,  toward  the  antique  Dragon-stone,  from 
whose  venerable  quarries  had  been  hewn,  age  after 
age,  and  block  by  block,  the  vast  pile  on  which  it  now 
stood — companionless  between  earth  and  heaven.  To 
scale  to  the  height  of  that  supreme  solitude  had  the 
heart  of  the  Dragon  rock  been  broken,  and  year  by 
year  his  mighty  limbs  in  massy  morsels  wrenched 
away;  and  now,  alone  under  the  melancholy  stars, 
pillared  upon  piles  of  pillage,  there  stood  the  hoary 
robber,  gazing  sadly,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  at  the  wrong 
ed  and  ruined  rock.  As  I  lifted  my  eyes  to  that  soli 
tary  image,  so  lifelike  and  so  lonesome,  with  ever  out 
stretched  arm,  and  long-appealing  gesture,  seeming  to 
look  eternally  in  one  direction,  as  though  listening  for 
an  answer  which  will  never  come,  I  fancied  that  the 
old  crane  might  be  saying  to  the  old  rock,  "  Irrevoca 
ble  is  the  Past,  and  sad  and  weary  is  the  coming  and 
the  going  of  the  endless  years.  And  now,  of  the  an 
cient  time,  are  we  two  left  alone  upon  the  earth.  Let 
us  be  reconciled  to  each  other." 


BOOK    II. 


Mac.  Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased  ; 
Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow  ; 
Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain  ; 
And,  with  some  sweet  oblivious  antidote, 
Cleanse  the  stuffed  bosom  of  that  perilous  stuff 
That  weighs  upon  the  heart  ? 

Doct.  Therein  the  patient 

Must  minister  to  himself. 

Mac.  Throw  physic  to  the  dogs.     I'll  none  of  it. 

Macbeth,  Act  V.,  Scene  4. 


G 


BOOK    II. 


CHAPTER  I. 

BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  PARENTHETICAL,  CONTAINING 
SUNDRY  REFLECTIONS  UPON  THE  RELATIVE  PO 
SITION  OF  PHYSICIAN  AND  PATIENT. 

As  events  are  to  be  told  quorum  pars  fui,  it  seems 
fitting  that  here,  if  any  where,  I  should  say  something 
about  myself.  On  this  subject  I  have  not  much  to 
say. 

It  was  a  justifiable  custom  of  the  old  masters  to 
paint  their  own  portraits  in  the  foreground  of  their 
pictures ;  nay,  even  to  represent  themselves  therein  as 
saints  and  apostles.  Saints  and  apostles  they  were  in 
their  pictures,  if  not  out  of  them,  and  this  no  matter 
how  well  their  tavern-doings  may  have  been  known 
to  the  pious  public  of  their  day. 

But  I  have  no  such  pretensions.  Few  men  have 
hands  strong  or  steady  enough  to  hold  up  the  mirror 
to  their  own  nature,  even  in  private.  But  to  do  this 
in  public  demands  a  courage  which,  happily,  I  am  not 
called  to  evince,  since  I  am  writing  only  of  others,  non 
tarn  sagax  dbservator,  quam  simplex  recitator. 

I  lost  my  father  when  I  was  three  years  old.  Per 
haps  the  waters  of  the  Beresina  still  roll  over  his  un- 
buried  bones.  My  only  knowledge  of  him  was  gath- 


52  THE   DOCTOK. 

ered  from  my  mother's  talk,  and  a  miniature  which 
represents  him  as  a  young  cavalry  captain  in  a  French 
regiment. 

In  the  year  1806  he  was  quartered  with  his  garri 
son  at  B ,  in  Thuringia,  where  he  made  the  ac 
quaintance  of  my  mother's  family,  and  asked  her  hand 
in  marriage  —  a  stranger,  a  Frenchman,  an  enemy! 
You  may  conceive  that  my  father's  offer  was  civilly 
declined  by  the  family.  Still,  the  charm  of  my  moth 
er's  beauty  and  goodness  was  such  that  he  could  not 
reconcile  himself  to  this  refusal.  In  1808  he  was  at 
Erfurt  with  the  Emperor ;  obtained  a  short  conge ;  re 
visited  my  mother's  family;  and  so  agreeably  im 
pressed  them  all  by  the  cordiality  of  his  manners,  and 
the  sincerity  of  his  affection  for  my  mother,  that  they 
could  no  longer  refuse  their  consent,  and  the  mar 
riage  was  hastily  concluded. 

My  mother  accompanied  her  husband  to  France, 
where  I  was  born,  at  St.  Cloud,  in  1809. 

In  1812  my  father's  profession  again  called  him  to 
arms.  On  leaving  my  mother,  he  promised  her  that 
this  campaign  should  be  his  last.  He  kept  his  word. 
Amid  the  snows  of  the  Beresina  he  perished. 

My  mother  returned  with  the  child  to  her  own  re 
lations,  and  settled  in  Germany.  She  never  married 
again,  but  devoted  her  widowhood  to  my  education. 

The  first  face  to  which  my  eyes  were  accustomed 
was  a  sad  one.  My  mother's  grief  endeared  to  me  the 
thought  of  a  father  whom  I  had  never  known.  The 
story  of  his  early  death,  and  of  the  sufferings  of  those 
who  perished  amid  the  frozen  steppes  in  that  disas 
trous  retreat  of  the  French  army  from  Eussia,  I  was 


THE  SECRET.  53 

soon  familiar  with.  These  stories  made  a  profound 
impression  upon  my  childish  mind,  to  which  I  trace 
the  passionate  longing  that  impelled  me,  from  my  ear 
liest  years,  to  embrace  a  profession  of  which  the  ob 
ject  is  to  mitigate  suffering  and  combat  disease.  This 
was  my  hobby  even  in  the  days  when  I  was  only  able 
equitare  in  arundine  longo  —  to  ride  a-cockhorse  on  a 
stick. 

The  face  of  my  father  on  the  miniature  haunted  my 
imagination  in  childhood.  I  seemed  to  see  him  per 
ishing,  neglected,  upon  the  frozen  banks  of  the  Bere- 
sina ;  his  dying  eye  turned  on  me,  and  his  hand  out 
stretched  in  vain  appeal  for  help.  I  persuaded  my 
self  that  his  life  might  have  been  saved  by  the  med 
ical  care  and  assistance  which  in  those  hideous  soli 
tudes  it  must  have  been  impossible  to  obtain.  My 
eyes  ran  over  with  tears ;  and  when  my  mother  said, 
"What  is  the  matter  with  the  child?"  I  flung  myself 
into  her  arms  and  said,  "  Dear  mother,  when  I  am  a 
man,  let  me  be  a  physician." 

My  mother  was  the  only  one  of  her  family  who  en 
couraged  in  me  this  desire,  which  strengthened  as  I 
grew  up.  Her  relations  were  scandalized  to  think 
that  the  member  of  a  noble  family  should  voluntarily 
become  the  member  of  a  profession  noble  only  in  the 
beneficence  of  it.  However,  my  own  strong  resolu 
tion,  and  my  mother's  gentle  firmness,  carried  the 
point.  A  physician  I  became,  and  a  physician  I  am  ; 
so  far,  at  least,  as  the  certificates  of  professors,  some 
experience,  and  an  ardent  love  of  science  can  make 
me. 

In  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain  were  still  living  some 


5-i  THE   DOCTOR. 

of  my  fatlicr's  relations.  This  fact,  but  yet  more  the 
advanced  state  of  medical  science  in  France,  decided 
me  to  begin  my  career  as  a  physician  in  that  country. 
I  was  on  my  way  thither  on  the  occasion  that  made 
me  a  witness  to  the  events  recorded  in  the  preceding- 
chapters. 

Between  me  and  those  events  there  was  now  a 
space  of  two  years,  and  between  me  and  the  Ehine 
the  mountain  chain  of  Les  Vosges. 

About  this  time  I  resolved  to  quit  my  modest  cham 
bers  on  the  Quai  St.  Michel.  There,  for  two  years,  a 
very  spider  of  science,  I  had  hung  my  dingy  web  over 
the  roofs  of  the  most  renowned  hospitals  in  Europe, 
and  dwelt,  tanquam  in  speculo  positus,  ever  ready  to 
pounce  upon  each  "interesting  case,"  as  the  unsenti 
mental  language  of  medicine  designates  the  most  ex 
cruciated  victims  in  the  great  torture-chamber  of  Dis 
ease.  My  time  during  these  two  years  had  not  been 
wasted.  I  might  now,  if  I  pleased,  return  home  with 
no  meanly  stored  experience  of  the  infinite  domain  of 
medical  science.  But  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind 
to  quit  the  most  luxurious  and  refined  capital  in  the 
world  without  having  devoted  some  time  and  atten 
tion  to  what  is  called  Society,  in  proportion  as  it  is  so 
cially  exclusive. 

Some  of  my  father's  family  still  occupied  high  posi 
tions,  and  were  able  to  introduce  me  to  those  spheres 
of  the  Paris  world  which,  ever  since  the  days  of  the 
Grande  Monarque,  have  monopolized,  almost  without 
interruption,  the  despotic  government  of  European 
taste  and  bon  ton. 

Know,  therefore,  oh  most  dear  and  much  revered 


THE   SECRET.  55 

Header,  that  my  address  until  farther  notice  is,  Rue,  et 
Tlwtd,  de  la  Paix,  au  premier,  wherein,  moreover,  nota 
qua  sedes  fuerint,  replacing  cases  numberless  of  speci 
men  bones,  gleam  cabinets  of  buhl  and  porcelain  vases. 
In  lieu  of  lancets  and  Latin  memoranda,  invitations, 
Opera-tickets,  and  billets-doux  strew  my  table  and  stuff 
my  looking-glass.  The  hardly-earned  title  of  "Doc 
tor  in  Medicine"  has  disappeared  from  my  visiting 
cards,  and  is  replaced  by  a  title  due  only  to  the  ac 
cident  of  birth.  I  rise  late,  with  the  sun  of  Fashion. 
I  lounge  over  the  dainty  breakfast  of  a  delicate  dan 
dy.  The  lightest  of  phaetons  or  the  neatest  of  En 
glish  hacks  takes  me  to  the  Champs  Elysees  and  the 
Bois,  or  else  I  saunter  on  the  Boulevard  arm  in  arm 
with  some  one  of  the  myriad  friends — so  lightly  won, 
so  lightly  lost — wherewith  that  pleasant  pavement  is 
besprinkled  ever.  A  dinner  in  the  bow  window  at 
the  Cafe  de  Paris,  a  stall  at  the  Opera,  and  three  or 
four  soirees  in  the  Faubourg,  finish  my  day  of  strenu 
ous  inertness. 

Whereat  you  shake  your  honored  heads,  oh  my 
much  disapproving,  much  respected  friends ! 

Yet  grant  me  a  moment  of  your  patience.  I  am 
nunquam  minus  otiosus  quam  quum  otiosus.  In  plead 
ing  my  own  cause,  let  me  vindicate  that  of  a  profes 
sion  dear  to  my  heart. 

The  doctor ! 

Dreary,  living  memorial,  maintained  by  the  sighs 
of  humanity  in  homage  to  the  Fall  of  Man ! 

Doctors,  undertakers,  and  hangmen  are  beings 
whose  presence  society  only  puts  up  with  because  it 
can  not  do  without  them.  Nobody  wishes  to  see 


56  THE   DOCTOR. 

much  of  them.  Doctors !  pah !  ghouls !  who  remind 
us  that  we  are  nothing  but  a  network  of  veins,  mus 
cles,  and  nervous  fibre!  Cynics  of  the  dissecting- 
room,  whose  eyes  are  sold  to  the  contemplation  of 
sickening  things,  whose  minds  are  made  up  in  the 
mould  of  a  harsh  materialism !  Doctors !  nightmares 
of  mankind,  which  endures  them  with  a  groan  only 
because  each  man,  as  an  antidote  to  prejudice,  carries 
in  him  a  strong  dose  of  superstition,  and  believes, 
when  his  body  begins  to  plague  him,  that  his  dear  life 
is  in  the  hands  of  the  leech. 

So  the  doctor  is  a  despot  after  all,  and  rules  by  the 
fear  of  death.  But  society  revenges  itself.  Despot 
ism  against  despotism. 

Let  the  doctor  dare  only  so  much  as  lift  his  eyes,  in 
the  hope  and  love  of  a  man's  heart,  on  the  daughter 
of  the  noble  house  whose  life  he  has  just  snatched 
from  the  opening  grave  with  an  energy  and  a  skill 
unknown  perhaps  to  science  without  love,  and  frigid 
ly  you  ask  for  his  bill,  and  sublimely  you  ring  the 
bell,  and  honestly  you  feel  that  rather  to  the  arms  of 
Death  than  to  the  arms  of  a  doctor  would  you  confide 
the  rescued  treasure. 

I  have  much  considered  this. 

In  exaggeration  itself  the  true  measure  can  be  found, 
since  there  it  must  be,  otherwise  how  should  it  be  ex 
ceeded  ? 

Something  of  error  I  find  on  either  side. 

"  There  must  be  division  of  classes  and  distinction 
between  ranks,"  says  the  World.  The  World  says 
well.  He  is  a  fool  that  would  gainsay  it;  and  who 
ever  fights  against  Prejudice  must  expect  to  be  worst- 


THE  SECRET.  57 

ed ;  for  the  odds  are  all  to  one.     However  hard  this 
may  appear,  it  is  just. 

I  have  seen  in  how  cruel  a  dilemma  those  unhappy 
ones  are  placed  who,  yielding  to  an  impulse  not  oth 
erwise  than  noble,  have  outraged  the  prejudice  of 
class,  and  overleaped  the  barriers  which  it  raised  be 
tween  two  hearts.  In  the  lives  thus  violently  united 
I  have  detected  an  irremediable  schism.  And  even 
there,  where  shame  and  pride  suppressed  the  groan 
of  conscious  failure,  to  my  eyes,  accustomed  to  trace 
them,  a  thousand  symptoms  have  revealed  the  pres 
ence  of  the  hidden  worm,  whose  morose  tooth,  made 
more  intolerable  by  the  necessity  of  concealing  the 
wound  on  which  it  worked,  was  gnawing  disappoint 
ed  hearts. 

True,  I  have  also  examined  cases  wherein  all  the 
world's  exactest  requirements  had  been  obediently 
fulfilled,  ay,  even  to  the  precise  satisfaction  of  its  high 
est  pretension — cases  of  failure  wherein,  nevertheless, 
rank,  name,  fortune,  age,  bodily  and  mental  advant 
ages,  all  reciprocities  in  short,  were  in  unison  to  a  de 
gree  that  might  sustain  the  quantitative  analysis  of 
Lavoisier.  The  temple  was  accurately  built,  but  with 
in  the  walls  of  it  no  divinity  abode. 

Of  all  cases,  these  are  the  most  puzzling. 

One  easily  understands  that  disobedience  to  a  law 
should  entail  unhappiness,  if  by  obedience  to  the  same 
law  happiness  is  secured. 

The  Law  of  God,  for  instance,  is  entitled  by  all  laws 
of  logic  to  avenge  the  infraction  of  it.  For  fools  may 
murmur  as  they  will,  but  let  any  man  loyally  obey 
that  law,  and  I  will  defy  him  to  be  unhappy. 

C2 


58  THE   DOCTOR. 

But  where  this  is  not  the  case,  where  the  strictest 
obedience  to  the  law  does  not,  as  a  necessary  conse 
quence,  insure  that  happiness  which  disobedience  for 
feits,  surely  there  must  be  "something  rotten  in  the 
state  of  Denmark." 

Let  us  not  fear  to  say  it :  'tis  the  law  itself  that  is 
rotten. 

In  what  ?     Perhaps  in  this : 

Cease  to  be  personages  only,  and  become  men,  if  you 
will  not  forego  the  prerogatives  of  man.  Cease  to 
live  by  convention  in  the  narrow  pride  of  position, 
and  begin  to  live  naturally  in  the  large  pride  of  hu 
manity,  if  you  would  enforce  Nature's  warrant  to 
search  life  for  human  joy.  But  take  heed — do  not 
deceive  yourselves.  If  you  are  conscious  that  Nature 
is  not  in  you,  that  men  you  are  not  and  never  can  be 
come,  then  in  God's  name  stick  to  your  ranks  and  con 
ventions,  and  thank  Heaven  that  these,  at  least,  enable 
you  to  be  something* 

All  things  are  easier  to  us  than  to  become  fully  and 
integrally  that  which  we  originally  and  naturally  are. 
And  if  the  dog-philosopher  who,  two  thousand  years 
ago,  went  about  in  the  world  with  lantern  lighted  at 
midday  to  look  for  a  man,  were  now  again  among  us, 
perhaps  he  would  no  longer  be  at  the  pains  even  to 

*  Had  my  friend  ever  read  the  poems  of  Charles  Churchill,  he 
might  have  found  in  the  following  verses  something  like  an  antici 
pation  of  this  thought : 

"  T\vas  Nature's  first  intent, 
Before  their  rank  became  their  punishment, 
They  should  have  pass'd  for  men,  nor  blushed  to  prize 
The  blessing  she  bestow'd,"  etc. 

CHURCHILL — Independence. 


THE  SECRET.  59 

search  at  all,  but  would  blow  out  his  lantern  and  keep 
contentedly  kenneled  in  his  tub. 

'"Vix  sunt  homines  hoc  nomine  digni." 

But  Diogenes  was  a  cur.  The  noble  mastiff  is  not 
to  be  roused  by  the  snarling  of  a  mongrel.  To  noth 
ing  less  than  man's  sympathy  for  man  can  man's  worth 
reveal  itself. 

Between  Christianity  and  Socialism  there  is  all  the 
difference  in  the  world.  Christianity  says  to  the  rich, 
Give.  Socialism  says  to  the  poor,  Take.  A  notable 
distinction!  Let  us  seek,  not  to  equalize, but  to  har 
monize  ranks  and  classes. 

"  And  who  is  better  qualified  to  do  this,"  I  said  to 
myself,  "  than  the  Physician — he  whose  subject  and 
whose  object  are  man  ?" 

To  find  man  in  the  Patient  by  showing  to  the  pa 
tient  man  in  the  Physician — this  was  my  purpose. 

Patient  and  Physician.  Do  not  these  represent  the 
two  most  salient  sides  of  humanity  ? 

The  sufferer :  deserving  love,  because  most  needing 
love. 

The  healer,  the  restorer :  deserving  love,  because 
most  competent  to  love. 

After  all  (may  the  ghost  of  Galen  forgive  me  for 
saying  it !),  Medicine,  if  it  be  a  science,  is  the  science 
of  guess-work  and  divination.  The  physician's  busi 
ness  is  to  guess  what  Nature  needs.  All  that  books 
can  teach  is  to  him  no  more  than  the  flight  of  the 
birds,  or  the  hue  of  the  entrails  to  the  augur — mere 
aids  to  intuition.  Sympathy  is  the  sole  source  of  div 
ination,  for  only  sympathy  can  interpret  the  unknown. 
Sympathy  is  revelation. 


60  THE   DOCTOR. 

Love  one  another,  and  help  one  another.  You  may 
write  a  thousand  volumes  upon  ethics,  but  you  will 
not  add  a  jot  to  the  divinity  of  this  doctrine. 

Well,  this  was  the  road  that  led  me  from  the  Quai 
St.  Michel  to  the  Kue  de  la  Paix. 

I  say  there  are  faults  on  both  sides. 

My  duty  thenceforth  was  to  combat  mutual  preju 
dice. 

The  faults  of  the  Physician,  as  a  class,  I  knew.  To 
emancipate  myself  from  these  needed  only  a  strong 
will  and  strict  adherence  to  a  few  simple  principles 
,  deduced  from  personal  experience.  But  from  the 
faults  of  other  classes  to  emancipate  the  patient?  Of 
this  I  knew  nothing,  and  felt  that  I  never  should  know 
any  thing  so  long  as  I  suffered  myself  to  see  in  my 
patients  nothing  more  than  so  many  scientific  "sub 
jects."  Certain  ills  there  are  which  are  only  conse 
quent  to  the  manners  and  customs  of  a  class. 

How  should  the  Physician  cure  these  ? 

Submit  to  a  medical  regimen  the  many  ways  of 
living  of  the  many  classes  of  society? 

You  can  not  do  it. 

Prevent  young  countesses  from  going  to  balls,  pre 
vent  old  gentlemen  from  drinking  too  much  generous 
wine  at  sumptuous  tables,  prevent  young  gentlemen 
from  passing  their  nights  in  playing  at  cards  and 
drinking  Champagne,  by  all  means.  If  you  can  do 
this,  Napoleon,  by  the  side  of  you,  was  a  tyro  in  the 
art  of  government. 

But  if  the  enemy  is  not  to  be  banished  by  this  or 
any  other  means,  then  let  us  study  more  narrowly  his 
mode  of  warfare,  that  at  least  we  may  diminish  his 
force  and  resist  his  attacks. 


THE  SECRET.  61 

The  inferior  classes  are  easy  of  access.  They  invite 
the  approach  of  the  observer. 

The  doors  of  poverty  are  off  their  hinges,  and  hang 
open. 

Eoofless  and  naked,  misery  crawls  at  your  feet. 

The  middle  class  opens  its  hand  to  you  with  a  wel 
come,  and  spontaneously  lays  bare  to  your  friendly 
eye  the  process  of  its  daily  life.  To  this  class  the  ed 
ucated  physician  brings  with  him  a  fragrance  of  re 
finement  which  pleasantly  refreshes  an  atmosphere 
close  and  clogged  with  the  taint  of  the  till  and  the 
store-house.  In  the  middle  class  the  family  doctor  is 
the  family  friend. 

Utilize  to  the  utmost  the  advantage  of  your  posi 
tion,  oh  my  brothers  in  the  healing  art.  You  are  the 
friends  of  mankind  at  large,  for  the  foe  you  contend 
with  is  all  men's  enemy,  therefore  you  stand  in  singu 
lar  relation  to  all  classes.  Mediate  between  them. 
The  Divine  Physician  of  humanity  was  content  to  call 
himself  a  Mediator.  Mediate,  also,  ye.  Three  times 
an  hour  you  are  called  from  the  straw  pallet  to  the 
princely  couch,  from  the  pauper's  hovel  to  the  rich 
man's  mansion.  Here  as  there,  in  this  as  in  that,  pain 
meets  your  eye  and  claims  your  care;  for  Disease, 
like  Death,  beats  with  equal  foot  on  the  thresholds  of 
the  rich  and  poor,  and  to  you  man's  weakness  opens 
the  doors  which  are  shut  by  his  pride.  Every  where 
you  have  seen  the  equality  of  suffering.  Every  where 
you  may  mediate  the  equality  of  happiness. 

But  the  doors  of  the  great  are  guarded  by  an  army 
of  lackeys.  In  the  houses  of  the  great  it  is  only  the 
sick-room  that  opens  to  the  physician.  When  the 


62  THE   DOCTOR. 

fear  of  death  passes  the  door  of  that  room,  it  strikes 
down  the  barrier  which  convalescence  makes  haste  to 
rebuild.  And  if  from  time  to  time  you  meet  again  in 
the  great  world  the  woman  who,  in  her  hour  of  su 
preme  anxiety,  flung  out  wild  hands,  and  wailed  to 
you  for  rescue,  she  will  henceforth  be  to  you  only  an 
apparition  in  which  the  arts  of  the  toilet  and  the  les 
sons  of  the  dancing-master  are  combined  to  deceive 
your  penetration,  and  lend  to  the  body  of  disease  the 
graceful  semblance  of  a  charm  whose  substantial  vir 
tue  is  only  in  the  gift  of  health. 

In  that  smiling  vision  of  a  pretty  woman,  bosomed 
in  an  airy  cloud  of  palpitating  gauze,  with  brows 
whereon  the  diamond  lights  defiance,  and  eyes  that 
sparkle  with  the  triumph  of  an  hour,  what  shows  you 
the  cankerous  thing  that  is  gnawing  at  the  core  of  the 
vital  coil — gnawing  at  the  core  so  fast,  that  haply  from 
that  brilliant  apparition  of  the  ballroom  to  the  wretch 
ed  image  on  the'bed  of  death  there  is  but  a  fainting 
fit,  a  syncope,  a  moment's  giddy  change  ? 

I  do  protest  it  amazes  me  to  have  seen  men  whose 
names  it  is  the  pride  of  science  to  record — men  who, 
to  the  patient  gasping  in  the  agony  of  death,  have  pre 
dicted  the  day  and  hour  of  his  recovery — stamp  their 
feet  with  angry  impatience  as  they  were  leaving  the 
door  of  some  fine  lady's  boudoir,  where,  on  costly 
cushions  of  the  softest  silk,  the  delicate  migraine  had 
spread -its  dainty  couch. 

Oh  ye  Samsons  of  science,  whose  strong  hands  have 
broken  the  jaws  of  young  lions,  and  beat  the  baffled 
fever  from  his  dearly-rescued  prey,  witless  as  babies 
worried  by  a  gnat  have  I  seen  you,  unable  quite,  for 


THE   SECRET.  63 

all  your  pains,  to  stop  the  small,  small  noxious  hum 
ming  of  that  infinitesimal  insect  commonly  called 
nerves!  Have  I  not  heard  you  loudly  denying  its 
existence  in  the  very  moment  when  you  were  bullied, 
baffled,  beaten  by  the  exasperating  buzz  of  it  ?  And 
then  do  you  abuse  the  poor  patient  for  not  being  able 
to  emancipate  herself  from  a  morbid  imagination. 
Emancipate  herself?  as  if  to  be  the  emancipator  were 
not  specially  your  business,  and  this  morbid  imagina 
tion  the  very  disease  it  behooves  you  to  deal  with ! 

"  Don't  drink  strong  tea ;  don't  jade  your  nerves  in 
crowded  rooms ;  don't  tire  your  strength  in  the  night 
long  dance !" 

Is  that  all  you  have  to  say  to  the  sufferer  ? 

But  they  do  drink  strong  tea ;  they  do  go  to  crowd 
ed  balls ;  they  do  dance  from  morning  to  night.  They 
do  nothing  else,  indeed. 

Well,  and  what  then  ? 

Ether  and  sal  volatile,  and  you  are  at  the  end  of 
your  pharmacopoeia. 

Bah! 

Sympathizing  reader,  do  you  now  understand  what 
induced  me  to  seize  the  favoring  chance  that  offered 
me  admission  into  favored  circles  ?  My  object  there 
was  two-fold.  I  wished  to  rid  myself  by  friction  with 
the  brilliant  surface  of  that  world  of  the  angularities 
of  professional  pedantry  which  the  physician  acquires 
from  the  habits  of  the  dissecting-room  and  the  hos 
pital  ward,  where  he  must  harden  his  susceptibilities 
against  the  piteous  moan  and  supplicating  look,  in  or 
der  that  his  steady  eye  may  miss  no  movement  of  the 
hand  of  the  professor  who  is  sawing  the  hipbone  or 


6-1  THE   DOCTOR. 

sewing  the  femoral  artery  of  No.  73,  and  then  hurry 
on  to  No.  87,  without  pausing  by  the  bed  where  they 
have  just  thrown  the  death-sheet  over  No.  78. 

I  also  wished  to  acquire  and  appropriate  to  my  own 
uses  those  fine  tones  and  delicate  touches  of  exterior 
culture  which  are  the  art  of  the  higher  classes ;  for  let 
it  be  fully  acknowledged,  the  Great  are  artists ;  artists 
of  the  beautiful  in  common  things,  artists  in  the  pres 
ervation  of  the  graces  of  daily  life.  I  am  thankful  to 
think  that  in  human  nature  the  tendency  toward  no 
bility  is  so  ineradicable,  that  while,  on  the  one  hand, 
vulgarity  itself  is  but  a  clumsy  homage  to  something 
above,  on  the  other  hand,  even -there,  where  nature  is 
most  artificial,  Beauty  receives  its  ultimate  tribute  in 
the  perfected  amenities  of  intercourse  and  purified 
forms  of  expression.  For  this,  I  faithfully  respect 
those  who,  as  a  class,  are  faithful  to  the  respect  of 
themselves.  Greatness  is  made  up  of  little  things 
greatly  treated ;  and  it  is  no  small  thing  to  realize  in 
little  matters  the  large  sense  of  that  lofty  motto,  "No 
blesse  oblige." 

With  the  result  of  my  attempts  to  analyze  the  subtle 
perfume  of  that  brilliant  flower  called  High  Life,  in 
order  that  in  the  same  corolla  which  contained  the 
dainty  poison  I  might  find  the  delicate  antidote,  I  have 
no  reason  to  be  dissatisfied.  I  acquired,  indeed — less 
by  any  scientific  skill  than  by  that  tact  which  is  the 
gift  of  daily  experience — a  reputation  greater  than 
my  deserts. 

But  throughout  this  chronicle  of  fates  not  mine,  I 
am  resolved  to  speak  no  more  about  myself  than  what 
absolutely  concerns  my  relation  to  the  life  of  others. 


THE   SECRET.  65 

1  am  writing,  as  it  were,  under  a  spell ;  and  the  ghosts 
that  have  set  this  task  upon  me  are  already  impatient, 
as  I  think  ;  for  again  I  seem  to  sit  before  the  half- up 
lifted  curtain  of  the  drama  of  a  dream ;  and  again,  as 
long  ago,  from  far  away  into  the  hearing  of  my  mind 
is  borne,  in  warning  or  in  menace,  the  phantom  haut 
boy's  melancholy  note.  By  the  side  of  thee,  my  Kead- 
er,  I  sit  down,  glad  of  thy  safe  human  presence  here, 
confronted  as  I  am  by  these  ghostly  memories. 

And  now  of  thee  also  gladly  would  I  know  as  much 
as  of  me  thou  now  knowest,  oh  my  Reader. 


66  THE   DOCTOR. 


CHAPTER  II. 
APPARITIONS. 

IN  this  daily  round  of  trivial  circumstance  my 
pleasantest  hours  were  when,  alono  in  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne,  I  let  the  reins  lie  idly  on  my  horse's  neck, 
and  lazily  indulged  my  own  inclinations  in  suffering 
him  to  follow  his.  I  speak  of  the  old  Bois  de  Bou 
logne,  the  Bois  of  many  years  ago,  whose  quiet  groves 
were  dear  to  solitude ;  not  the  new-made  forest  of  to 
day,  which  is  chiefly  dear  to  Fashion  and  the  Demi 
monde.  Not  more  pleasant  to  my  horse's  feet  was  the 
soft,  thick-shaded  sand  along  the  thousand  leafy  alleys 
where  he  led  me  at  his  will  and  pleasure,  than  to  my 
heart  those  many  pastoral  haunts  so  near  to  Paris,  so 
far  from  the  world,  along  the  wooded  banks  of  the 
Seine — smiling  Surene,  or  Mon  Calvaire  veiled  in  so 
berest  autumn  air.  But  chiefly  I  loved,  and  oftenest 
sought,  that  part  of  the  wood  where,  as  you  ride,  at 
intervals  behind  the  warm  bird-haunted  brakes  you 
see  in  the  pure,  clear  evening  light  the  gleaming  of 
the  quiet  Mare  d'Auteuil. 

There,  in  true  German  fashion,  I  used  to  dream 
away  the  yellow  ends  of  many  an  idle  afternoon.  For 
there,  a  weeping  willow  hangs  over  the  glassy  water, 
yearning  to  some  mirrored  image  which  it  well  knows 
how  to  hide.  There  the  tall  Italian  poplars  stand  a- 
tiptoe,  high  above  the  comely  trunks  of  good  old  oaks 


THE   SECRET.  67 

contentedly  half  hidden  in  the  mazy  thicket  under 
neath.  But  to  those  poplars  comes  the  evening  breeze 
with  latest  tidings  of  their  own  fair  land.  That  is 
why  they  are  so  pensive  all  day  long.  The  water  it 
self  feeds  there,  with  constant  cool,  under  the  heavy 
summer  heats,  the  green  roots  of  a  paradise  of  blooms. 
The  iris,  with  his  yellow  cloven  helm  and  sharp  two- 
edged  sword,  steps  boldly  forward  from  the  blossomy 
brinks.  Like  a  little  tree  out  of  the  crystal  pool,  up- 
shoots,  with  graceful  pyramid  of  white,  thick-clustered 
flowers,  the  delicate  alisma.  Midway  along  the  liquid 
dark  float  all  day  long  at  ease  the  large  leaf-isles  of 
the  nympha3a.  And  there  the  restless  water-spider 
weaves  his  swift-dissolving  wizard  circles  round  the 
dreamy,  half-closed  calyx  of  the  lotus,  leaning  low. 

Thither  one  evening,  from  the  little  village  hard  by 
where  I  put  up  my  horse,  I  had  strolled  in  time  to  see 
the  setting  sun  of  October  twinkle  through  the  airy 
webwork  of  the  half  dismantled  grove.  I  was  sitting 
upon  the  roots  of  a  hollow  tree,  and  gazing  at  the 
west,  where,  though  the  sun  was  sunk,  dark,  bright- 
lipped  clouds  were  dipping  their  moist  mouths  into  a 
lingering  liquid  fire,  to  breathe  it  back  in  sombre  light 
upon  the  shadowed  land. 

"Here,"  I  said  to  myself,  "so  near  the  noisy  me 
tropolis  of  the  world,  is  the  very  perfection  of  soli 
tude!" 

At  that  moment,  across  the  profound  calm  of  na 
ture,  I  heard  a  voice  of  pain  crying  "  Cain !  Cain !" 

There  was  something  in  the  suddenness  and  the 
sound  of  that  voice  which  made  me  shudder. 

Startled,  I  looked  all  around  me.     I  could  see  no 


68  THE   DOCTOR. 

human  being.  Every  bird  was  silent  in  its  nest. 
And  still  the  voice  cried  "  Cain !" 

Then,  silence. 

From  the  grated  greenery  of  the  willow-tree  not  far 
off  the  voice  had  issued.  But  1  sat  still,  stupefied  and 
bewildered,  without  courage  to  approach  that  spot. 

Again  in  accents  of  intensest  pain  the  voice  began 
to  speak.  Listening  with  a  creepy  awe,  I  heard  it  cry, 

"  If  thou  wilt  destroy  me,  dreadful  Hand — if  thou 
art  sworn  to  sink  me  to  the  abyss — why  then  dost 
thou  not  pluck  me  by  the  hair,  or  seize  me  by  the 
throat,  and  drag  me  down  into  the  deeps  from  which 
thou  risest  thus  ?  If  thou  wilt  have  my  heart,  why 
dost  thou  not  pierce  this  long-tormented  breast  with 
but  a  single  sharply-daggered  ray  of  thine  intolerable 
amethyst?  Be  any  thing  but  what  thou  art.  Rise 
rather  on  my  path — not  thus,  cold  Hand,  not  thus — 
but  with  fist  firm-clenched,  and  arm  of  weightiest 
menace.  Then  will  I  grapple  with  thee  hand  to  hand, 
ay,  even  till  my  bones  be  broken  in  thine  iron  grasp. 
But  stretch  not  forth  thus  piteously  to  me  those  pale 
imploring  fingers.  Not  thus !  I  can  not  seize  thee 
thus,  thou  knowest  it  well ;  for  fast  the  devilish  ame 
thyst  has  fixed  me  with  his  demon  eye,  and  it  burns, 
it  burns — away !" 

Then  from  the  twilight  shadows  of  the  glimmering 
willow  a  man  came  forth,  and  instantly  disappeared 
elsewhere  into  the  dark  and  lonely  woodland. 

Instantly,  yet  not  so  soon  but  what  I  had  recog 
nized  his  face.  I  had  never  forgotten  that  face.  The 
man  I  had  just  seen  was  the  man  I  had  seen  two  years 
before  upon  the  deck  of  the  "Loreley." 


THE   SECRET.  69 

It  was  the  Gentleman  in  Black. 

I  was  strangely  agitated  by  the  unexpected  and  mo 
mentary  reappearance  of  this  man. 

Night  had  long  fallen,  and  all  was  dark  around  me 
before  I  could  rouse  myself  from  the  stupor  of  amaze 
ment  into  which  I  had  been  cast,  no  less  by  the  mys 
terious  and  unintelligible  words  which  I  had  over 
heard,  than  by  the  vivid  recollections  and  undefined 
curiosity  which  those  words  had  conjured  back  to  my 
mind. 

But  at  length  I  was  conscious  of  a  chilly  change  in 
the  night  air,  I  got  up  and  walked  back  with  bewil 
dering  sensations  to  the  little  village  where  I  had  left 
my  horse. 

My  head  was  already  in  a  whirl  when  I  mounted 
and  rode  homeward.  I  rode  fast,  feeling  that  I  was 
late,  but  hardly  knowing  how  or  where  I  rode. 

A  strong  wind  had  risen,  and  violently  swept  for 
ward,  up  the  road,  twirling  columns  of  fine  white  sand. 
I  could  see  them  plainly ;  for  it  was  one  of  those 
nights  in  which  the  sky  is  darker  than  the  earth,  and 
the  land  was  covered  with  a  gray,  melancholy  glare. 
They  moved  sometimes  beside  me  like  spectres  as  I 
galloped  on,  or 

"Lapland  giants  trotting  by  our  side ;" 

sometimes  they  rose  erect  before  me,  and  paused  and 
hovered  on  the  road  as  if  in  menace.  To  watch  them 
whirling  and  changing  shape  as  I  galloped  through 
them  made  me  giddy.  I  felt  my  brain  getting  troub 
led,  and  my  sight  confused. 

Suddenly,  on  the  summit  of  a  tall,  dark  tree  (as  it 


70  THE   DOCTOR. 

seemed  to  me),  I  saw  solemnly  seated  a  strange,  pale 
figure.  It,  too,  I  recognized  at  once.  It  was  the  fig 
ure  of  the  woman  I  had  seen  two  years  before  seated 
in  the  same  attitude  on  the  hatchway  of  the  steamer. 
It  was  she  herself,  the  Loreley ! 

Her  dark  mantle  had  slid  from  her  cold  white 
shoulder — cold  and  white  as  marble.  Her  long  hair 
beat  the  wind.  And  a  high,  wild  song  of  jubilee  and 
lamentation — a  song  of  deepest  joy  and  deepest  sor 
row,  she  was  chanting  or  wailing  in  the  plaintive  mur 
mur  of  the  midnight  storm.  A  song  of  subtlest  sor 
cery  it  was ;  unearthly  sweet,  and  wild  with  more 
than  mortal  pain ;  in  meshes  of  a  music  magical  be 
wildering  every  headlong  sense,  and  leading  blindfold 
to  the  brinks  of  death  the  soul  it  thrilled  with  solemn 
shuddering  and  a  deep  delight.  I  felt  the  madness 
growing  in  me  as  I  gazed  with  charmed  and  spell 
bound  eyes  upon  the  melancholy  face  of  that  alluring 
apparition. 

While  I  was  yet  looking  at  it,  unconscious  of  all 
else,  my  horse  shied,  and  sprang  aside  with  a  fright 
ened  bound.  I  lost  my  stirrup.  The  reins  fell  from 
my  loose  hand.  Confused  and  afraid  of  falling,  I  tried 
to  throw  my  arms  round  the  neck  of  the  horse. 

Suddenly,  as  in  a  dream,  I  perceived  that  all  the 
place  was  changed,  and  the  things  about  me  other 
than  they  were.  The  forest  had  disappeared,  and  giv 
en  place  all  round  to  bare,  black,  pointed  rocks,  whose 
sharp  peaks  grazed  with  rugged  edges  the  sullen  sky. 
About  the  base  of  these  black  rocks  fierce  breakers, 
roaring,  dashed  their  foamy  surge,  and  tossed  in  air 
white  mists  of  chilly  spray. 


THE   SECRET.  71 

That  to  which  my  arms  were  clinging  fast  was  not 
my  horse's  neck,  but  the  prow  of  a  broken,  sinking 
bark.  That  which  I  had  taken  for  columns  of  white 
dust  was  a  tumultuous  crowd  of  desperate  swimmers, 
shipwrecked  like  myself. 

And  we  fiercely  jostled  each  other,  and  fought  and 
pushed,  and  struggled  all  together  in  the  roaring  gulf. 

But  high  over  all  this,  alone  under  the  starless, 
dark  night-sky,  aloof  upon  her  reachless  rock,  sat  cold 
the  Loreley.  And  her  calm  intolerable  eye  was  fixed 
upon  that  writhing  knot  of  hideous  human  faces. 

There,  in  the  violent  waters,  all  human  passions 
seemed  let  loose — Desire  and  jealousy,  and  love  and 
rage,  and  rapture  and  despair ;  and  in  every  stormy 
face  the  waves  were  tossing  up  and  down,  the  pas 
sions  of  man  contended  more  fiercely  than  the  ele 
ments  of  nature  in  revolt.  Each  desperate  swimmer 
was  fiercely  struggling  to  the  savage  rock  where  sat 
the  Loreley.  Each  frenzied  eye  that  glittered  from 
the  seething  surge  was  fixed  with  hopeless  passion  on 
the  face  of  the  Sorceress. 

And  still  she  sat,  and  still  she  sang  her  solemn  song, 
the  cruel  fair  Enchantress ! 

But  as,  one  by  one,  each  fierce,  impassioned  face  was 
singled  sharply  out  from  the  heaving  human  mass, 
and  struck  by  the  intense  look  of  that  cold  eye  that 
watched  them  from  the  rock,  the  face  thus  paralyzed 
fell  back,  still  staring  to  the  last  with  glassy  looks 
upon  the  Loreley,  and  dropped  into  the  waves  and 
disappeared.  Each  maddened  swimmer,  as  that  eye 
fell  on  him,  flung  up  his  arms,  and  was  whirled  away 
upon  the  roaring  gulf,  and  seen  no  more. 


72  THE   DOCTOK. 

And  still  she  sat,  and  still  she  sang  her  solemn  song ; 
and  still  we  helpless  swimmers  beat  the  boiling  bil 
lows,  and  still  the  drowning  men  strove  fiercely  till 
they  sunk. 

At  last  I,  too,  felt  myself  suddenly  touched  by  an 
icy  ray  from  the  eye  of  the  Loreley. 

Then  toward  her  I  stretched  forth  my  arms,  and 
cried, 

"  Oh  Loreley !  dear  Loreley !  and  I,  too,  suffer.  But 
I  believe  in  thee,  dear  Loreley.  I  do  not  think  that 
thou  desirest  my  destruction,  though  in  thee  I  feel  my 
fate.  Speak  to  me,  speak  to  me,  oh  fair  and  far  away, 
and  tell  me,  tell  me,  that  thou  art  she  whom  I  have 
ever  loved  and  must  love  evermore !  Hear  me,  dear 
Loreley !  speak  to  me,  Loreley !  say  to  me,  say  to  me, 
'  Yes,  I  am  she — I  am  Song ;  for  I  am  the  voice  of 
your  hearts,  ye  forlorn  ones.  But  out  of  your  hearts 
I  am  fled — long  since,  far  away,  and  forever ;  for  in 
them  I  could  not  abide.  Forever,  forever  I  have  left 
ye,  and  ye  seek  me — forever,  forever.  And  empty  ye 
wander,  and  tuneless.  Weary  ye  stray  in  the  desert, 
and  sad  with  your  orphaned  souls.  And  ever  the 
poor  soul  is  wringing  her  hands,  and  in  vain.  And 
ever  she  yearns,  and  ever  she  calls  Come  back  !  Come 
back  !  to  the  voice  she  remembers,  and  pines  for,  and 
mourns — the  voice  of  your  hearts  that  is  fled.  And 
ever  without  rest  ye  are  urged  to  recapture  that  wing 
ed  voice  which  from  far,  far  off,  makes  moan. 

"  'But  never  that  voice  shall  return  to  you ;  never, 
never  shall  you  hear  it  save  in  the  accents  of  an  eter 
nal  longing  eternally  unfulfilled.  Never  shall  the 
querulous  chord  that  vibrates  to  the  music  of  that 
voice  find  resolution ;  never  shall  the  panging  of 


THE   SECRET.  73 

your  spirits  be  at  rest.  But  in  your  pride  ye  perish. 
For  never  patient  of  the  impossible,  ever  ye  strive, 
and  ever  strive  in  vain,  to  overpass  the  bound  that 
separates  from  your  desire  at  its  height,  the  height  of 
a  satisfaction  which  you  contemplate  in  pain.  And 
in  the  supreme  moment  of  your  desperate  endeavor, 
when  with  wild  hands  and  clamorous  hearts  you  clam 
ber  at  the  summit,  then  with  broken  limbs  you  are 
hurled  backward,  and  subside  into  the  abyss.'  .  .  . 
Tell  me  this,  dear  Loreley.  Tell  me  that  it  is  not 
thou  who  dost  destroy  us.  And  if  I  must  never  at 
tain  to  thee,  ever  at  least  let  me  love  thee,  oh  thou 
fair  and  far  away  1" 

I  cried  I  know  not  what,  but  words  like  these  of 
passionate  appeal.  And  tears,  hot  tears,  were  falling 
fast  from  those  deep  eyes,  no  longer  cold  or  callous, 
of  the  Loreley. 

They  fell  like  soothing  dews  into  the  boiling,  va 
porous  surge,  and  made  sweet  stillness  on  the  vio 
lent  waves.  Then  in  that  stillness,  tenderest  sounds 
of  unimagined  sweetness  sunk  softly  down,  and  bathed 
with  blissful  music  all  my  throbbing  brow. 

"  Yes,"  the  sweet  sounds  answered, "  it  is  I.  Thou 
hast  known  me.  Thou  hast  divined  my  song.  And 
the  heavy  curse  which  banished  me,  and  bound  me  to 
the  barren  rock,  is  fallen  away,  and  I  come  to  thee, 
poor  soul !  I  come."  • 

Lower,  lower  from  her  lonely  place,  and  nearer, 
nearer  to  me  leaned  the  Loreley.  Her  white  hand 
hovered  over  me  in  the  hollow  dark. 

My  own  right  hand  in  ecstasy  I  stretched,  and 
seized  *  *  *  *  * 

D 


7-i  THE   DOCTOR. 


CHAPTER  III. 

AND  WHAT  THEY  LEAVE   BEHIND  THEM. 

THIS  was  all  I  could  recollect  when,  many  days  aft 
erward,  I  began  slowly  to  recover  from  the  effects  of 
the  violent  shock  I  had  received  in  falling  from  my 
horse. 

A  fiacre,  returning  empty  from  Auteuil  to  Paris  on 
the  evening  referred  to  in  the  previous  chapter,  had 
found  me  lying  senseless  on  the  road.  I  must  have 
fallen  with  violence  against  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  for  I 
had  a  severe  contused  wound  on  the  forehead.  And 
I  suppose,  from  the  torn  state  of  my  clothes,  that  in 
falling  I  may  have  Caught  my  foot  in  the  stirrup,  and 
been  dragged  by  my  horse  some  yards  along  the 
road;  for  my  hands  were  badly  cut,  and  my  coat  com 
pletely  in  tatters.  My  visiting-cards,  and  the  address 
on  one  or  two  letters  which  he  found  in  my  pocket- 
book,  had  enabled  the  cabman  who  picked  me  up  to 
bring  me  to  my  own  house,  where  I  remained  insensi 
ble  for  many  days. 

The  fantastic  details,  therefore,  which,  by  an  effort 
of  memory,  I  have  carefully  put  together  in  the  pre 
ceding  chapter,  must  have  been  only  the  images  rap 
idly  painted  on  the  receding  skirt  of  a  dream  (the  hal 
lucination  of  a  giddy  brain  in  a  moment  of  delirium) 
by  a  consciousness  already  confused  between  fact  and 
fancy.  And  the  whole  of  my  imaginary  adventure 


THE   SECRET.  75 

with  the  Loreley,  on  which  memory,  in  the  mind's 
waking  state,  had  impressed  those  proportions  which 
are  inherent  to  the  habitual  sense  of  time  and  space, 
must  in  reality  have  occupied  only  a  few  seconds. 

I  was  convinced  of  this  by  a  fact  which  enabled  me 
to  recall,  with  an  accuracy  that  would  otherwise,  per: 
haps,  have  been  impossible,  the  circumstances  which 
preceded  and  those  which  accompanied  my  fall,  and 
which  proved  that  up  to  the  moment  when  I  first  saw 
the  apparition  of  the  Loreley  I  was  in  full  possession 
of  my  senses. 

On  the  evening  when  I  was  brought  home  senseless 
by  the  driver  of  the  fiacre,  my  valet,  in  trying  to  get 
my  clothes  off  me,  found  my  right  hand  so  firmly 
clenched  together  that  he  had  to  force  open  the  fin 
gers.  He  then  perceived  that  the  hand  was  closed 
upon  what  it  had  doubtless  been  grasping  when  it  was 
stiffened  by  the  sort  of  tetanus  produced  by  the  vio 
lence  of  my  fall — a  piece  of  crumpled  paper.  As  this 
paper  was  covered  with  writing  which  he  could  not 
understand,  the  valet  surmised  that  it  might  possibly 
be  of  some  importance,  and,  instead  of  destroying  it, 
he  put  it  aside,  and  placed  it  in  my  hands  when  I  was 
sufficiently  reccovered,  with  the  explanation  here  giv 
en. 

I  unfolded  the  paper  carelessly  enough,  and  glanced 
at  it  with  indifference,  convinced  that  it  could  contain 
nothing  of  the  least  interest ;  probably  a  prescription, 
or  some  old  medical  memoranda  of  no  use  to  any 
body ;  and  I  was  just  about  to  toss  it  aside  with  a  sick 
man's  usual  impatience,  when  my  eye  was  caught,  and 
my  interest  instantly  aroused,  by  these  words  written 


76  THE   DOCTOR. 

in  German :  "  Fatal  Hand,  forbear !  forbear !  Why  so 
heavily  bruise  a  heart  already  broken?" 

"  This,"  I  exclaimed,  "  can  be  no  mere  chance ;"  and 
with  an  ardor  as  great  as  my  previous  indifference,  I 
began  to  read  the  manuscript.  The  characters  were 
pale,  and  in  many  places  quite  effaced.  The  paper  it 
self  was  so  torn  that  the  fragment  was  often  quite  un 
intelligible.  I  pieced  the  writing  out,  and  put  it  to 
gether  with  extreme  difficulty.  So  far  as  I  could  suc 
ceed  in  making  any  thing  out  of  it,  it  ran  thus  : 

[ch?]ase  me,  with  never  any 
rest,  from  land  to  land?  Fatal  Hand,  forbear!  for 
bear  !  Why  so  heavily  bruise  a  heart  already  brok 
en  ?  Finish  thy  hateful  work.  I  offer  thee  my  throat. 
Throttle  me,  once  for  all,  with  those  stiff  fingers.  I 
lay  bare  to  thee  my  breast.  Crush  it !  crush  it  in 
thy  giant  grasp !  Stifle  here  for  evermore  the  pain 
ful  breath  of  life ;  in  its  own  cradle  let  it  find  its 
grave.  And  thou !  thou  whom 

more  than  a  brother !  Why  must  it  needs  have  been 
thou,  thou  of  all  others  who 

the  fatal  ring  wicked 

chance  into  thy  hand?     Had  I 

not  staked  on  it  all  my  heart's  felicity  ?  all  my  soul's 
salvation  ?  Did  I  not  see  in  that  moment  the  ame 
thyst  which  Hell  *  *  *  *  in 
fernal  flaming  of  those  fires 

even  then,  when  imploring 

me  jealous  de 

mon  too  late!         * 

Every  where  under  the  water 


THE  SECRET.  77 

in  vain!  in  vain! 

brought  senseless  home  ?  Then  speech  died  on 
my  lips.  Then  in  search  of  death  I  wandered  over 
the  world.  Was  I  not  ever  foremost  in  the  ranks  of 
those  who  were  vowed  to  destruction  by  the  wrath  of 
the  savage  Tscherkess  ?  Like  the  Koman  of  old  who 
had  heard,  to  his  hurt,  the  voice  of  the  augur,  wrapped 
in  the  robe  of  despair,  blindfold  I  rushed  into  the 
heart  of  the  battle,  invoking  the  gods  to  devote  me 
'  to  the  dead  and  to  Mother  Earth.'  In  vain  !  in  vain ! 
"With  a  sigh  of  relief  I  saw  the  sword  flash  bare  above 
me ;  with  a  sigh  of  relief  I  watched  the  muzzle  of  the 
gun  leveled  at  my  head  by  the  eye  that  never  errs. 
What  balked  them  of  a  willing  victim  ?  What  turn 
ed  them  from  their  certain  aim,  and  my  release  ? 

"  Ever,  ever  the  same !  on  the  rocks  of  the  Cauca 
sus  ;  amid  the  camps  of  the  Circassian ;  in  the  howl 
ing  Baltic  billows ;  in  the  battle  and  the  storm ;  that 
Hand!  Why  did  I  start  like  a  stricken  man,  and 
fall  to  earth,  when  unawares  I  saw  it  on  the  stretched 
forefinger  of  a  common  sign-post  glittering  at  me? 
Then  when,  by  my  fall  (thy  work !)  we  were  all  saved 
from  imminent  sudden  death  under  tlie  tumbling 
rock?  Ever  thy  ghostly  hand,  fearful  protecting 
spectre !  Enough !  my  punishment  is  greater  than  I 
can  bear.  What  right  hast  thou  to  rob  the  grave? 
Let  me  die.  *****  Felix!  Fe 
lix !  *  *  *  *  that  should  have  blessed 
me,  that  has  been  my  curse !  And  when  the  priest 
*  *  *  *  *  *  our  union,  did  I  not 
see  in  hers  *  *  that 

froze  the  marrow  of  my  bones?  She 


78  THE   DOCTOK. 

herself,  had  she  not  seen  it  sparkle  ?  And  then  * 
-;.;-  »;*•*.;•«  *  -;v  *  the  fright 
ful  secret  suppressed  for  years  with  the  force  of  a 
giant,  and  endured  with  the  fortitude  of  a  martyr 

in   a   moment  of 

mad  delirium !  Ay,  from  the  lips  of  fever  the  burn 
ing  breath  of  hell  streamed  into  her  heart,  and  seared 
all  pity  in  it,  and  hardened  it  forever!  * 
*  *  forever!  *****  * 
I  saw  her  in  the  silent  morning  light,  when  all  the 
world  was  still  and  holy — I  saw  her  when,  in  the 
stillness,  my  heart  was  lifted  up.  Then  when  I  be 
gan  to  bless  God,  thinking  ''surely  the  bitterness  of 
death  is  passed,'  I  saw  her  by  my  bedside,  watching 
— another  spectre !  *  *  and 

her  eyes  were  on  me,  and  I  could  not  answer  her 
question." 


Ilere  the  fragment  ended.     I  could  have  no  doubt 

that  the  writer  of  it  was  Count  K ,  and  that,  in 

some  way  or  other,  it  had  passed  from  his  hands  into 
mine.  I  had  distinctly  identified  him  with  the  soli 
tary  figure  I  had  seen  issuing  from  the  willow-tree 
immediately  after  I  had  overheard  those  strange  words 
which  had  so  strongly  affected  my  imagination,  and 
between  which  and  the  contents  of  this  page  of  manu 
script  I  could  now  trace  an  obvious  connection.  The 
count  may  have  been  not  far  from  me,  somewhere  in 
the  forest  at  the  time  of  my  fall.  This  paper,  which 
looked  like  the  page  of  a  private  journal,  he  may  have 


THE   SECRET.  79 

had  with  him  at  the  time.  Perhaps  the  wind  had 
swept  it  away,  perhaps  he  himself  may  have  torn  it 
out,  crumpled  it  up,  and  tossed  it  from  him,  not  deem 
ing  that  the  darkness  of  that  night  could  have  any 
eyes  to  read  it.  This  paper,  fluttering  on  the  wind, 
and  gleaming  white  in  the  night  air,  may  have  been 
the  very  thing  which  frightened  my  horse ;  the  very 
thing  which  I  had  seized  in  my  giddy  trance,  as  I 
fell,  supposing  it  to  be  the  hand  of  the  Loreley. 

The  events  recorded  in  the  first  part  of  this  book, 
and  which  I  witnessed  on  my  way  to  Paris,  had  made 
upon  me  an  impression  hardly  to  be  accounted  for  by 
the  nature  of  the  events  themselves,  which  had  in  it 
nothing  at  all  extraordinary.  I  had  seen  a  boat  up 
set,  and  a  little  boy  rescued  from  drowning  by  a  Sile- 
sian  nobleman,  who  appeared  to  be  a  practiced  swim 
mer,  the  husband  of  a  woman  of  great  beauty,  with 
whom  he  did  not  seem  to  be  very  happily  united. 
There  was  nothing  wonderful  in  all  this.  Little  boats 
will  upset  if  they  are  carelessly  managed ;  men  who 
know  how  to  swim  will  do  what  they  can  to  save  lit 
tle  boys  from  being  drowned ;  and  beautiful  women 
will  live  on  bad  terms  with  their  husbands,  without 
any  special  exertions  on  the  part  of  Fate. 

But  there  are  moments  in  life  when,  without  any 
apparent  preparation,  some  unseen  Power  lifts  aside 
the  veil  which  hides  from  our  inward  eye  a  world  of 
things  obscurely  apprehended. 

In  the  dead  stagnant  flats  of  daily  life,  when  we 
have  only  a  sleepy  sense  of  being,  and  the  leaden 
weight  of  accumulated  triviality  weighs  us  down,  and 
keeps  us  low  and  lazy  in  the  muddy  bottom-bed  of 


80  THE  DOCTOR. 

tlie  running  river  of  life,  we  are  easily  satisfied,  be 
cause  our  desires  also  are  low  and  muddy — 

"Rising  to  no  fancy  flies;" 

and  we  perceive  not  then  the  spiritual  breeze  that 
lightly  ruffles  the  surface  of  the  living  element.  But 
sometimes  the  deeps  are  disturbed,  or  sometimes  we 
must  come  to  the  surface  for  air,  and  then  we  behold 
in  a  moment  of  time  a  world  of  strange,  new  things, 
bright,  and  sharp,  and  vivid,  as  they  really  are,  and 
not  flat,  and  faint,  and  hueless,  as  the  smeared  image 
of  them  is  imperfectly  reflected  on  the  dull  and  heavy 
ooze  of  our  customary  perceptions. 

There  are  undoubtedly  moments  of  preternatural 
vision  when  the  whole  mind  is  in  the  eye,  and  achieves 
for  our  knowledge  of  the  universe  in  man  what  the 
telescope  achieves  for  our  knowledge  of  the  universe 
outside.  It  annihilates  time  and  space  by  calling  the 
invisible  into  sight  and  bringing  near  what  is  distant. 
Lovers  sometimes  have  this  faculty  of  vision  in  mo 
ments  of  passion ;  poets  in  moments  of  genius.  The 
former,  in  such  moments,  know  each  other's  hearts  at 
a  glance ;  the  latter,  in  such  moments,  know  the  whole 
world's  heart  at  a  glance. 

Shakspeare,  one  might  almost  think,  must  have  been 
in  permanent  possession  of  such  a  gift.  When  he, 
whose  intuition  seems  superhuman,  undertook  to  de 
pict  the  birth  of  love,  it  is  noteworthy  that  he  did  not 
select  for  the  expression  of  it  a  single  word  from  the 
inexhaustible  treasures  of  his  vast  vocabulary. 

In  the  thick  of  a  thoughtless  crowd  two  human  be 
ings  meet  each  other.  These  two  beings  exchange  a 


THE   SECRET.  81 

single  momentary  look,  and  all  is  consummated.  Noth 
ing  has  been  said,  and  all  is  said.  Nothing  has  been 
done,  and  all  is  done.  The  chain  of  Fate  snaps  fast 
both  ends  of  it,  and  shuts  before,  behind.  Every  link 
in  that  chain  of  fatality  is  the  logical  sequence  of  a 
necessary  law.  We  call  it  Love.  And  for  the  high 
est  earthly  expression  of  it,  we  know  no  other  name 
than  Komeo  and  Juliet. 

It  is  worthy  of  notice  how  lovers  are  never  tired  of 
talking  about  eternity.  With  them  every  thing,  how 
ever  common,  assumes  colossal  proportions.  They  are 
to  be  satisfied  with  nothing  less  than  Forever.  The 
vulgarest  of  men,  who  is  probably  incapable  of  loving 
any  thing  for  more  than  a  few  hours,  does  not  scruple 
during  those  few  hours  to  exercise  a  lover's  establish 
ed  prerogative,  and  prate  of  eternity  as  though  it  were 
his  to  dispose  of.  Blame  him  not.  He  is  sincere. 
What  is  the  reason  of  this  ? 

It  is  not  hard  to  find.  For  what  is  Eternity  but 
that  which,  being  present,  absorbs  into  its  own  pres 
ence,  and  so  fully  possesses,  both  past  and  future? 
Lovers  do  this  when  they  love,  even  though  their  love 
may  last  but  a  moment.  That  moment  is  eternity. 
All  that  it  contains  belongs  to  eternity,  and  stands  in 
vast  and  superlative  proportions  to  the  mean  relations 
of  time. 

But  such  moments  of  intuition  are  not  exclusively 
the  property  of  lovers  and  men  of  genius. 

It  was  in  such  a  moment,  years  ago,  on  the  deck  of 

the  "  Loreley,"  that  (I  know  not  how)  the  entire  fate 

of  two  hearts  had  been  laid  bare  to  my  eye  at  a  glance ; 

and  that  so  clearly,  that  I  seemed  to  feel  through  and 

D2 


82  THE  DOCTOR. 

through  their  feelings,  and  look  through  and  through 
their  eyes,  into  the  deepest  depth  of  their  being,  with 
out  needing  the  knowledge  of  a  single  circumstance 
in  their  lives  to  guide  me  through  the  labyrinth  of 
their  lot  It  was  clear  to  me  in  that  moment  that 
what  these  two  beings  possessed  in  common  was  that 
which  must  eternally  divide  them  from  each  other — 
a  thought  irreconcilable  to  union.  I  can  find  no  oth 
er  expression  for  what  I  mean ;  for  what  I  mean  is 
only  vaguely  expressed  to  my  own  apprehension. 

But  I  was  powerfully  affected  by  what  I  saw  and 
what  I  felt  in  that  moment,  and  I  am  aware  that  it 
has  impressed  a  special  direction  upon  all  my  subse 
quent  turn  of  thought  and  course  of  study. 

From  that  moment  all  my  studies  were  to  me  only 
in  the  sense  of  so  many  levers  wherewith  I  was  in 
hopes  to  force  from,  its  sockets  the  shut  door  behind 
which  are  the  mysterious  chambers  of  the  mind.  It 
appeared  to  me  that  we  doctors  ought  to  bring  all  our 
endeavors  to  culminate  on  that  point  of  being  wherein 
the  two-fold  nature  of  man  both  falls  together  and 
falls  asunder.  It  is  not  the  body  only,  nor  the  mind 
only,  which  we  have  to  consider  as  a  thing  by  itself. 
Vainly  we  satiate  fever  with  quinine  if  we  can  not 
simultaneously  provide  the  needful  opiate  for  a  wor 
ried  brain ;  and  vainly  shall  we  administer  morals  to 
a  mind  diseased  if  we  can  not  give  support  and  ener 
gy  to  the  will  by  healing  ministrations  to  the  body. 
Hence  the  necessity  of  investigating  the  conditions  of 
alliance  between  the  different  dynamics  of  life.  Alte- 
rius  sic  altera  postit  opem. 

Extraordinary ! 


THE   SECRET.  83 

With  this  interjection  we  are  apt  to  dismiss  from 
our  minds  those  subjects  to  which  we  grudge  even 
the  most  ordinary  attention. 

"Very  remarkable,"  say  we,  thereby  meaning  that 
which  'twere  waste  of  time  either  to  mark  or  remark. 

Yet  it  is  by  extraordinary  revelations  that  ordinary 
facts  become  explicable.  Mad-houses  and  their  in 
mates  (not  always  perhaps  so  pitiable  as  in  our  world 
of  sober  sadness  we  esteem  them)  received  my  fre 
quent  visits.  I  followed  with  attention  even  the  rav 
ings  of  fever,  but  was  specially  studious  of  my  own 
sensations. 

Such  studies,  I  confess,  must  necessarily  remain  im 
perfect,'  because  therein  the  mind  is  simultaneously  the 
subject  and  the  instrument.  To  this  I  trace  the  com 
paratively  small  result  hitherto  attained  by  metaphys 
ics. 

I  made  my  servant  wake  me  frequently  during  the 
night,  that  I  might,  as  it  were,  seize  in  the  act  the  fur 
tive  process  of  my  dreams,  compare  the  influence  of 
different  hours,  different  conditions  of  body,  and  re 
cord  my  impressions  while  they  were  yet  vivid. 

These  observations  were  destined  to  form  materials 
for  a  psychological  treatise,  the  completion  of  which  I 
reserved  for  maturer  years. 

Thus,  I  had  little  difficulty  in  anatomizing  my  re 
cent  hallucination  in  the  Bois  de  Boulogne. 

The  events  of  more  than  two  years  ago,  on  board 
the  steamer,  had  filled  the  background  of  my  brain 
with  a  series  of  indistinct  images  or  ideas.  My  second 
unexpected  encounter  with  the  count  had,  by  a  sud 
den  shock  to  the  imaginative  faculty,  forced  these  im- 


8-i  THE  DOCTOR. 

ages  into  the  foreground  of  Fancy,  thus  approaching 
them  nearer  to  reality.  Eealities  themselves  had  sim 
ultaneously,  in  the  tumult  of  the  elements,  assumed  a 
fantastic  character,  thus  approaching  nearer  to  the  ac 
tion  of  the  imagination. 

The  whole  vision,  with  all  its  retinue  of  sights  and 
sounds,  had  doubtless  occupied  but  a  few  seconds  in 
its  passage  over  a  brain  already  bewildered  by  the 
rush  of  blood,  in  which  consciousness  was  at  last  ex 
tinguished.  "When  I  opened  my  note-book  to  record 
this  new  experience,  I  found  that  my  last  entry  was  as 
follows. 


THE  SECRET.  85 


CHAPTER  IV. 
THEORY  OF  APPARITIONS. 

"Die  Geisterwelt  1st  nicht  verschlossen  ; 
Dein  Sinn  1st  zu,  dein  Herz  1st  todt." 

"  Unlocked  the  world  of  spirits  lies  ; 
Thy  sense  is  shut,  thy  heart  is  dead." 

GOETHE — Faiist. 

SPECTRAL  apparitions?  phantoms?  ghosts?  vis 
ions? 

Pooh !  effects  of  imagination !  nonsense ! 

Granted :  for  us,  who  do  not  experience  them ;  but 
for  the  ghost-seer,  the  visionary,  what  is  proved  by  the 
fact  that  what  he  sees  /  do  not  see  ? 

The  verdict  of  the  senses,  negative  to  me,  is  affirm 
ative  to  him ;  and  if  the  thing  imagined  have  no  real 
existence,  the  imagination  of  it  is  not  the  less  a  real 
ity.  The  proof  of  the  apparition -is  that  it  appears. 

What  we  call  The  Evidence  of  the  Senses  will,  I 
think,  if  analyzed,  be  found  to  consist  of  two  distinct 
activities — Sensation  and  Inference. 

Sensation  alone  can  not  constitute*  the  act  of  intelli 
gent  perception — such,  at  least,  as  for  all  practical  pur 
poses  we  regard  it. 

For  instance,  we  do  not  see  the  solidity  of  any  ob 
ject;  we  infer  it.  We  do  not  see  the  cause  of  any 
sound ;  we  infer  it.  Nay,  we  unconsciously  infer  the 
images  of  all  objects  from  the  nature  of  the  action  ex- 


86  THE   DOCTOR. 

cited  by  the  objects  upon  the  nerves  of  sensation  ;  for, 
though  the  images  of  objects  are  reflected  upon  the 
retina,  they  can  not  be  reflected  upon  the  brain ;  nor 
are  they  even  reflected  upon  the  retina  in  the  position 
which  is  given  to  them  by  intelligent  perception. 
Sight,  therefore,  is  not  an  image,  but  a  sensation.  The 
image  exists  only  in  the  thought  produced  by  the  sen 
sation. 

Hence  intelligent  perception  depends  upon  accura 
cy  of  inference  rather  than  acuteness  of  sensation,  and 
accuracy  of  inference  must  depend  upon  experience. 
It  is  so  strong  a  tendency  in  our  nature  to  project 
consciousness,  as  it  were,  by  referring  all  sensation  to 
external  objects,  that,  if  the  act  of  inference  (which 
completes  what,  for  want  of  a  better  term,  I  must  be 
content  to  call  intelligent  perception)  were  not  con 
stantly  subordinated  to  judgment  and  experience,  we 
should  be  led  to  ignore,  or,  at  any  rate,  to  misappre 
hend  that  vast  range  of  subjective  sensations  which 
constitutes  so  large  a  part  of  our  consciousness. 

There  can  be  no  doubt,  however,  that  we  are  ca 
pable  of  seeing,  and  that  very  clearly,  objects  which 
have  no  immediate  external  counterpart,  and  hearing 
sounds,  as  well  as  tasting  flavors,  and  smelling  odors, 
which  have  no  external  cause.  For  instance,  after 
looking  at  any  object  in  a  bright  light,  we  shall  con 
tinue,  long  after  we  have  ceased  to  contemplate  it,  to 
see  the  same  object  depicted  in  various  colors  upon 
a  dark  ground,  or  under  the  eyelid  of  a  closed  eye. 
And  those  cases  are  too  common  to  be  disputed  in 
which  sensation  continues  to  be  felt  in  limbs  that  have 
been  amputated. 


THE  SECRET.  87 

To  me  it  is  very  doubtful  whether  such  sensations 
can  rightly  be  called  imaginary.  There  is  no  physic 
al  proof  that  they  are  not  actual,  but  rather  the  con 
trary  ;  for  it  can  be  shown  that  in  all  such  cases  there 
is  an  actual  excitation  of  the  neurility  of  a  nerve.. 

They  can  only  be  called  imaginary  when  the  act 
of  inference  which  accompanies  them  excludes,  or  only 
partially  accepts,  the  counter-evidence  of  other  senses. 
This  is  the  case  in  any  strong  cerebral  excitement 
whenever  the  faculty  of  inference  becomes  deranged, 
and  a  single  sensation  is  consequently  suffered  so  to 
domineer  over  all  others  as  to  become  hallucination. 

Between  hallucination,  therefore,  and  intelligent  per 
ception,  this  would  seem  to  be  the  practical  difference : 
intelligent  perception  qualifies  the  assertion  of  each 
sensation  by  comparing  it  with  the  testimony  of  all 
others;  in  hallucination,  this  power  of  comparison 
has  become  either  imperfect  or  impossible,  so  that 
purely  subjective  sensation  is  attributed  to  an  object 
which  only  exists  in  the  imagination.  This  is  gener 
ally  the  case  in  sleep,  where  sensation  is  almost  in 
variably  subjective,  yet  never  consciously  so ;  dreams 
being  only  the  efforts  of  the  imagination  or  the  un 
derstanding  to  account  objectively  for  subjective  sen 
sation. 

It  has  been  ascertained  that  the  image  even  of  an 
object  in  motion  will  remain  on  the  retina,  and  con 
tinue  to  excite  sensation  in  the  nervous  centre  of  the 
optic  apparatus  long  after  the  object  itself  has  been 
removed  from  the  eye.  And  the  sight  of  a  horrible 
object  will  often  haunt  us  for  days  or  weeks,  or  a  yet 
longer  time  after  the  horrible  object  has  ceased  to  be 


TEE   DOCTOR. 

substantially  before  us.  The  duration  of  the  spectre 
will  in  that  case  be  probably  proportioned  to  the  hor 
ror  occasioned  by  the  object  which  has  caused  it,  that 
is  to  say,  to  the  shock  upon  the  mind.  But  the  shock 
upon  the  mind,  if  excessive  or  permanent,  may  react 
upon  the  body.  A  horrible  sensation  produces  a 
horrible  idea ;  the  horrible  idea  reproduces  a  horrible 
sensation. 

Here  it  is  obvious  that  all  physiological  inquiry 
touches  very  closely  upon  the  domain  of  psychology. 
The  practical  physician  can  not  refuse  his  serious  at 
tention  to  that  great  region  of  all  inquiry  into  the 
complicated  nature  of  human  consciousness.  For 
there  is  a  constant  interchange  between  sensation  and 
thought,  between  action  and  contemplation,  between 
the  outward  and  the  inward,  between  objects  and 
ideas,  between  mind  and  matter.  This  is  the  point 
to  which  I  have  wished  to  bring  inquiry,  or  on  which, 
at  least,  I  would  fix  conjecture. 

I  dismiss  from  present  consideration  all  those  spec 
tral  phenomena  of  which  the  cause  can  be  distinctly 
traced  to  conditions  purely  physical,  such  as  the  black 
dog  of  the  Cardinal  Crescentius  and  the  like.  These 
are  nearly  always  amenable  to  medicaments  and  regi 
men.  For  similar  reasons  I  need  not  notice  any  of 
the  current  accounts  of  places  supposed  to  be  haunted. 
Whether  these  be  old  wives'  fables  or  authenticated 
facts,  they  are  equally  removed  from  the  scope  of 
medical  speculation,  and  have  no  interest  for  the  pres 
ent  inquiry,  which  is  solely  concerned  with  the  per 
manent  relations  between  thought  and  sensation. 

I  assume  a  strong  affection  of  the  mind,  either  as 


THE   SECKET.  89 

cause  or  effect,  in  its  relation  to  the  action  of  a  man ; 
for  example,  of  a  criminal. 

Let  us  suppose  some  passion  to  have  taken  posses 
sion  of  this  man's  mind. 

That  passion  henceforward  determines  the  course 
of  his  actions  to  the  exclusion  of  all  normal  manifest 
ations  of  the  man's  free  will.  It  becomes  to  him,  so 
to  speak,  afatum  or  destiny. 

A  human  life  obstructs  the  path  of  this  passion. 
Passion  marches  straight  to  its  object,  and  tolerates  no 
obstacle  by  the  way.  Assassination  has  become  a 
necessary  step  on  the  path  prescribed  to  the  man  by 
the  passion  to  which  he  has  abdicated  his  will.  The 
man  avoids  with  horror  the  thought  of  this,  which  in 
turn  pursues,  and  never  quits  him  till  it  has  made  him 
familiar  with  its  presence.  Occasion  puts  the  knife 
into  his  hand.  The  victim  falls. 

From  the  series  of  criminal  thoughts  issues  the  crim 
inal  act;  from  the  abstract,  the  concrete.  The  mur 
derer  awakes  from  his  long  dream  of  murder  with  the 
bloody  knife  in  his  hand. 

The  series  of  criminal  thoughts  belonged  to  the  do 
main  of  one  man's  imagination ;  the  bloody  knife  be 
longs  to  the  domain  of  reality  for  all  men. 

Here  the  line  is  indicated  which  unites  two  points 
whereof  each  is  stationed  in  a  different  world. 

Let  A  be  the  ideal  world,  and  B  the  real  world. 

A  has  conducted  to  B. 

Therefore  B  conducts  to  A. 

That  is  to  say,  reality  conducts  to  imagination,  ac 
tion  to  vision.  But  as,  in  the  parallelogram  of  forces, 
the  action  here  is  the  resultant  of  the  various  activi- 


90  THE   DOCTOR. 

ties  contained  in  the  imagination  (i.  e.,  the  series  of 
criminal  thoughts),  so  the  imagination,  when  acted  on 
in  turn,  can  take  no  other  form  than  that  which  it  has 
itself  determined.  And,  either  permanently  or  peri 
odically,  the  murderer  (supposing  of  course  the  case, 
as  previously  assumed,  to  be  one  of  hallucination)  re 
news  the  action  in  the  vision,  which  shows  him  the 
bloody  knife,  and  the  victim's  corpse,  etc. 

The  vision  exists  for  the  actor,  but  for  him  only. 
Consequently,  without  preceding  action,  no  permanent 
or  periodical  vision  is  possible.  The  series  of  criminal 
thoughts  alone,  without  result  of  any  kind  in  action 
(an  A  without  a  B),  can  not  produce  permanent  or  pe 
riodical  spectres.  At  least  I  know  of  no  such  case. 
The  blot  upon  the  brain  becomes  palpable  to  the  bod 
ily  eye  only  when  the  darkness  of  it  has  passed  into 
the  deed  which  stains  a  life. 

The  great  poet  of  the  English  Commonwealth  says 
well: 

1 '  Evil  into  the  mind  of  God  or  man 
May  come  and  go,  so  unapproved,  and  leave 
No  spot  or  blame  behind."* 

*  Were  it  not  (as  the  dates  sufficiently  establish)  that  the  doctor's 
speculations  on  this  subject  were  written  in  the  year  183G,I  should 
certainly  have  surmised  (notwithstanding  a  certain  extravagance  in 
his  conclusions,  to  which  a  physiologist  like  Mr.  Lewes  would,  no 
doubt,  strongly  demur)  that  he  had  previously  read  with  attention 
that  captivating  work,  "The  Physiology  of  Common  Life." 

The  dates,  however,  stubbornly  forbid  any  such  supposition. —  Ver- 
bum  Sap. — THE  EDITOR. 


THE   SECRET.  91 


CHAPTEK  V. 
THEORY  CONFOUNDED  BY  FACT. 

IT  is  not  without  blushes  that  I  now  place  on  record 
this  somewhat  silly  ebullition  of  the  vanity  of  juvenile 
speculation  ;  but,  at  the  time  when  I  wrote  the  words 
just  cited,  the  arrogant  ardor  of  youth  persuaded  me 
that  I  had  therein  found  safe  foundation  for  a  system 
of  scientific  thought ;  and  yet,  within  a  few  weeks  aft 
erward,  half  a  dozen  pencil-marks  scrawled  by  a  stran 
ger's  hand  on  a  piece  of  crumpled  paper,  blown  into 
my  possession  by  the  wind  of  accident,  sufficed  to 
place  me  in  perplexity  and  mistrust  before  my  barely- 
acquired  conviction. 

In  that  scrap  of  paper  had  I  not  before  my  eye 
proof  positive  that  Count  K was  under  the  dread 
ful  dominion  of  some  periodical  apparition  independ 
ent  of  his  will  ?  But  was  it  possible  to  believe  that 
the  noble  and  imposing  countenance  of  the  count  was 
simply  a  grimace  assumed  by  a  long-studied  duplicity 
to  mask  the  vulgar  nature  of  a  common  criminal? 

No,  I  could  not  do  this.  My  whole  mind  indig 
nantly  revolted  from  such  a  suspicion.  My  theory,  or 
this  man's  face — which  was  the  liar? 

A  fico  for  all  the  theories  that  ever  were  invented, 
if  they  theorize  away  man's  wholesome  faith  in  man ! 

But  what  then,  in  a  soul  so  pure  and  lofty  as  that 


92  THE  DOCTOR. 

which  seemed  to  reign  royally  at  ease  upon  the  open 
forehead  of  this  strange  being,  could  have  occasioned 
effects  so  like  the  barking  of  a  coward  conscience  at 
the  memory  of  a  crime  ? 

Impossible  to  conceive !  To  me,  at  least,  impossi 
ble. 

Once  more  the  life  of  this  man  seemed  to  thrust  it 
self  upon  my  own,  and  this  time  with  an  imperious 
pretension  to  enter  into  the  inmost  circle  of  those 
ideas  to  the  service  of  which  I  had  dedicated  my  in 
telligence. 

What  had  before  allured  me  with  the  charm  of  a 
vague  curiosity  now  impelled  me  with  a  command  al 
most  like  that  of  a  duty. 

I  felt  bound  to  find  again  this  mysterious  person 
age  ;  to  enter  his  inner  life  as  he  had  entered  mine ; 
and  to  initiate  myself  into  his  secret  with  all  the  ar 
rogated  rights  of  a  lawful  claimant  to  an  idea,  who 
has  been  unjustly  ousted  from  his  due  possession. 

But  my  search  was  in  vain. 

I  inquired  at  all  the  embassies ;  I  inquired  of  the 
police ;  I  inquired  at  the  public  hotels  and  the  princi 
pal  shops  in  Paris ;  and  I  utterly  failed  to  find  out 
any  thing  about  Count  K . 

I  was  at  last  forced  to  give  up  all  hope  of  tracing 
him.  He  had  probably  left  Paris. 

Besides,  the  day  fixed  for  my  own  departure  was 
near  at  hand,  and  my  friends  declared  it  to  be  abso 
lutely  incumbent  on  me  not  to  quit  the  French  capi 
tal  without  having  duly  visited  all  the  wonders  of  it. 

I  am  sorry  and  ashamed  to  say  that  I  had  not  the 
moral  courage  to  resist  this  stupid  imposition,  and  my 


THE   SECRET.  93 

last  days,  therefore,  were  devoted  to  what  is  called 
"sight-seeing." 

When  I  recall  the  days  that  are  past,  I  am  con 
scious  of  having  submitted  to  so  much  needless  dis 
comfort  and  infructuous  toil  from  a  lazy  inability  to 
resist  this  sort  of  pretensions,  that,  bitterly  lamenting 
the  precious  hours  I  have  too  often  squandered  in  the 
payment  of  illegal  imposts  to  unwarrantable  preju 
dice,  I  am  resolved  for  the  future  to  prove  myself  a 
very  Harnpden  in  the  matter  of  all  such  unjustifiable 
exactions.  "When  I  think  of  all  I  have  suffered,  and 
all  that  humanity  is  still  suffering  for  the  want  of 
some  Hampden-hearted  man  to  vindicate  the  cause  of 
individual  freedom  against  this  most  odious  of  all  di 
rect  taxes — the  sight-seeing  tax,  which  is  a  tax  upon 
the  eyes  of  a  man — tumet  jecur  !  my  gorge  rises,  and 
the  spleen  of  my  just  indignation — overflows  into — 


9-i  THE  DOCTOR. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ADVICE  TO  SIGHT-SEERS. 

AFTER  long  stay  in  any  place,  in  the  moment  when 
we  are  about  to  leave  it,  one  thinks  it  a  duty  to  see, 
in  the  most  desperate  hurry,  every  thing  in  that  place 
which  one  has  had  no  care  to  see  at  one's  leisure. 

Monuments,  museums,  parks,  public  buildings,  col 
lections — every  thing,  from  prisons  to  pagodas,  puts 
on  the  obnoxious  form  of  a  tax  collector,  and  comes 
knocking  at  the  doors  of  that  respectable  mansion,  for 
which  conscience,  already  pays  a  sufficiently  high  rent 
to  convention. 

In  that  fretful,  flurried,  unsettling  moment  of  man's 
fugitive  life,  when  he  is  paying  his  bills  and  packing 
up  his  portmanteau,  then  is  the  time,  of  all  others, 
when  these  importunate  notorieties  take  mean  advan 
tage  of  his  helpless  condition,  and  voiciferously  in 
sist  on  a  visit.  There  is  no  appeasing  them  but  by 
submissive  compliance  with  their  demands ;  for  they 
turn  even  our  very  friends  into  an  army  of  touters. 

And  we  call  this — "seeing  the  curiosities  of  the 
place," 

Yet  I  can  conceive  of  no  objects  which  a  man 
should  be  less  curious  to  see  than  those  of  which  he 
knows  beforehand  that  he  will  never  see  them  again. 
Oh  that  "wallet"  of  time,  "wherein  he  puts  alms  for 
Oblivion !"  Oh  the  things  we  stuff  (and  with  what 


THE  SECRET.  95 

baste !)  into  that  lumber-room  of  passing  impressions, 
from  which  Memory  can  never  afterward  fetch  away 
a  stick  of  serviceable  furniture ! 

Animi  fenestrw  oculi.  How  do  we  fritter  and  drib 
ble  away  this  grand  capital  of  sight !  For  sight  is  a 
capital,  and  it  is  not  inexhaustible.  How  do  we  im 
poverish  the  exchequer  of  the  eye  by  changing  gold 
en  ingots  into  copper  coins  for  the  purchase  of  an 
infinite  number  of  things  of  farthing  value !  How 
will  ye  rise  in  the  retrospect  of  judgment  against  us, 
all  ye  lost  looks  and  squandered  glances!  Poor, 
wasted  pocket-money  of  that  rich  spendthrift,  Want- 
of-thought !  Thefts  from  the  sacred  heritage  of  Beau 
ty  maladministered  by  idle  hours,  untrustworthy  guar 
dians  of  a  property  not  theirs ! 

Oh  dear  Eeader,  if  in  the  hour  of  thy  departure  from 
any  place  thine  eye  hath  yet  left  a  look  to  spare,  give 
it  rather  to  thy  neighbor's  dog;  for  he  at  least,  in 
some  sort,  will  render  thee  the  worth  of  it  by  a  last 
friendly  wag  of  his  tail ;  but  hang  it  not  up,  like  a 
worn-out  garment  never  to  be  used  again,  on  the  sto 
ny,  callous  cornice  of  some  monument  dedicated  by 
the  impatience  of  a  moment  to  the  importunity  of 
Oblivion. 

Is  it  not  distressing  to  see  men  of  a  sober  conduct, 
in  the  last  moment  of  leaving  a  place  where,  for  so 
many  months  or  years,  they  have  lived  at  ease  and  in 
dignity,  suddenly  plagued  with  this  sight-seeing  fever, 
"  grin  like  a  dog,  and  run  to  and  fro  in  the  city  ?" 

If  you  ask  them  why  they  do  this,  they  have  no 
better  answer  than  that  "  every  body  does  it." 

What   a  frightful,  invisible  tyrant  is  this  Every 


96  THE   DOCTOR. 

Body,  who  respects  not  the  humble  independence  of 
Any  Body ! 

Well,  if  thou  canst,  content  thee  with  this  Auroe 
£0a  of  the  modern  Pythagoreans.  But  as  for  me, 
eheuf  elieu!  what  has  it  not  cost  me — what  sweat! 
what  toil ! — in  the  going  up  and  down  of  interminable 
stairs !  whereby,  me  Hercle  !  I  believe  that  I  have  ex 
uded  in  the  sweat  of  my  brow  many  thousand  shil- 
lingworths  of  knowledge,  for  which,  may  the  genera 
tion  of  guides  and  door-keepers,  if  they  be  not  con 
demned  to  hard  labor  at  the  stone  of  Sisyphus  on  my 
account,  remember  me  favorably  to  their  fellow  Cha- 
rons  of  a  better  world ! 

As  for  those  modern  Pythagoreans,  whenever  by 
his  ipse  dixit  I  now  detect  one  of  them,  I  fear  him  as 
a  man  infected  with  a  contagious  disease.  Fcenum 
habet  in  cornu.  I  take  the  alarm,  and  avoid  that  man 
by  all  means  in  my  power,  inwardly  praying  (since  I 
would  not  be  uncharitable)  that  it  may  graciously 
please  Providence  to  remove  him  speedily  from  this 
world,  and,  if  possible,  take  him  to  itself. 

Mayst  thou  also,  oh  dear  Reader,  be  ever  able  on 
all  such  occasions  to  exclaim  "Sic  me  servdbit  Apollo ;" 
and  whenever  thou  shalt  be  pestered  by  these  false 
prophets  crying  "Lo  here!"  and  "Lo  there!"  may 
Heaven  send  thee  grace  to  withstand  them ! 


THE   SECRET.  97 


CHAPTER  VII. 
THE  GAMBLING-HOUSE  IN  THE  RUE 


THUS  one  evening,  the  programme  arranged  by 
some  of  my  friends  for  the  curiosity  which  they  im 
puted  to  my  sense  of  duty  happened  to  lead  me  to  a 
place  which  I  had  never  before  visited,  and  which  (I 
admit)  merits  one  visit,  but  not  two — to  wit,  a  gam 
bling-house. 

It  was  one  of  those  fashionable  hells,  which,  at  the 
time  I  am  speaking  of,  were  tolerated  at  Paris,  and 
which,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  are  to  be  found  to-day  in 
almost  every  German  watering-place.  The  house  in 
the  Rue differed  in  no  particular  from  the  gen 
erality  of  those  splendid  temples  of  Fortune  which 
assuredly  need  no  description.  But  to  me  the  scene 
I  witnessed  there  was  new,  and,  truth  to  say,  it  was 
not  exactly  what  I  had  expected.  To  my  thinking 
one  essential  element  is  wanting  to  the  passion  for 
play,  namely,  grandeur.  Indeed,  this  feverish  cupid 
ity  has  nothing  in  common  with  passion  except  in 
satiability,  and  for  this  reason  it  does  not  seem  to  me 
to  merit  the  noble  name  of  passion. 

Ambition,  Love,  nay,  even  Inebriety,  when  it  has  not 
yet  quite  brutalized  its  victim,  do  in  a  certain  sense, 
and  to  a  certain  extent,  enlarge  and  exalt  the  faculties 
of  those  who  yield  to  them,  or  else,  at  least,  they  force 

E 


98  THE   DOCTOR. 

those  faculties  to  produce  themselves  in  some  new  and 
unusual  form.  With  this  it  is  otherwise.  The  player 
himself,  indeed,  may  be  violently  agitated  by  the  stu 
pendous  hazard  of  Fortune,  which  at  one  moment  up 
lifts  him  on  its  topmost  wave,  and  at  another  moment 
sinks  him  suddenly  to  the  abyss.  In  the  rapid  alter 
nation  of  triumph  and  despair,  thus  tossed  to  and  fro 
between  power  and  impuissance  even  to  the  point  of 
insensibility,  the  mind  of  the  gambler  may  perhaps 
present  to  him  the  image  of  himself  as  something 
Titanic  and  supermortal.  But  to  the  spectator  he 
presents  only  the  vile  grimace  of  an  assumed  com 
posure,  which  is  neither  natural  nor  admirable,  or  else 
yet  the  more  painful  image  of  a  demoniac  whose  con 
vulsion,  under  possession,  can  inspire  no  other  feeling 
than  repugnance. 

I  was  already  about  to  turn  away  disgusted,  -when 
the  remarks  exchanged  among  a  crowd  of  spectators 
like  myself,  who  had  collected  round  the  table  for 
Trente  et  Quarante,  attracted  my  attention,  and  induced 
me  to  join  the  group. 

"Tristie!  He  has  put  on  Ked  for  the  fifteenth 
time,  and  won !" 

I  pushed  my  own  with  difficulty  into  the  crowd  of 
heads  that  were  turned  in  the  direction  where,  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  table,  was  seated  the  player,  whose 
successful  fidelity  to  a  single  color  had  so  greatly  ex 
cited  the  admiration  of  the  onlookers. 

A  heap  of  gold,  piles  of  rouleaux  and  notes,  left  me 
no  doubt  where  to  look  for  the  favorite  of  Fortune. 

Hardly  could  I  repress  a  cry  of  astonishment  on 
recognizing  Count  R . 


THE  SECKET,  99 

This  time  his  appearance  reminded  me  more  vivid 
ly  than  ever  of  the  scene  on  board  the  steam-boat, 
when  the  coldness  and  fixity  of  his  features,  compared 
with  the  violent  play  of  the  boiling  waters,  had  so 
strangely  impressed  me ;  for  at  this  moment  I  could 
not  but  similarly  contrast  with  the  tumult  of  passions 
visible  in  the  human  waves  that  were  fluctuating  all 
round  him,  the  same  impassive,  imperturbable  quies 
cence  on  the  face  of  that  man. 

The  cards  had  just  been  shuffled  for  a  new  cut. 
Strongly  impressed  by  a  sense  of  the  certainty  with 
which  the  strange  player  seemed  to  carry  fortune  with 
him,  the  majority  of  the  Ponte  followed  his  example ; 
and,  as  he  did  not  yet  seem  willing  to  pocket  his 
gains,  new  stakes  covered  that  part  of  the  table  which, 
for  the  sixteenth  time,  had  been  so  decisively  favored 
by  luck. 

Just  at  the  moment,  however,  when  the  croupier 
cried,  u  Le  jeu  estfait:  rien  ne  va  plus"  the  immense 
heap  of  gold  and  notes  whose  proprietor  by  his  per 
sistent  adherence  to  Eed  had  seduced  all  the  other 
players  to  set  their  stakes  on  the  same  color,  was 
swiftly,  almost  imperceptibly,  pushed  across,  on  to  the 
side  of  the  contrary  chance.  Taken  completely  with 
surprise  by  this  rapid  movement,  the  other  players  let 
slip  the  decisive  moment  when,  by  following  that 
movement,  they  also  might  have  saved  their  money. 

For,  this  time,  Eed  lost,  Black  won. 

The  stranger,  already  so  admired  for  his  constant 
good  luck,  had,  by  one  of  those  instantaneous  inspira 
tions  which  are  quite  inexplicable,  made  Fortune  his 
slave  for  the  seventeenth  time,  and  realized  the  high- 


100  THE   DOCTOR. 

est  sum  which  the  bank  remained  in  a  condition  to 
pay! 

Every  Body  was  astonished.  I  myself,  who  had 
witnessed  the  whole  operation,  was  at  a  loss  to  explain 
this  instantaneous  change  of  plan  on  the  part  of  the 
player. 

I  had  not  for  one  moment  taken  my  eyes  off  the 
count.  I  was  paralyzed  and  confounded  by  the  con 
flicting  testimony  of  my  own  senses,  which  on  the  one 
hand  affirmed  that  the  stakes  had  been  moved,  and,  on 
the  other  hand,  that  the  player,  whom  I  had  been 
watching  with  intense  attention,  had  never  once  stir 
red  from  the  position  in  which  he  was  sitting  with 
folded  arms,  apparently  quite  unconcerned  with  the 
game. 

It  seemed  impossible  that  he  himself  could  have 
moved  the  stakes  without  my  having  noticed  the  ac 
tion.  But,  if  not  he,  who  then  could  have  moved 
them? 

Every  Body  present  must  have  been  convinced  that 
they  were  moved  by  the  player  himself;  for  nobody 
raised  a  single  objection  ;  and  even  the  croupiers,  who 
have  the  eyes  of  Argus,  did  not  challenge  the  fairness 
and  legality  of  the  operation. 

It  is  true  that  I  was  so  occupied  in  watching  the 
count's  face  that  I  did  not  pay  much  attention  to  the 
table ;  and,  though  I  am  ready  to  swear  that  I  did  not 
see  him  move,  I  do  not  feel  authorized  to  swear  that 
I  saw  him  not  move.  For  certainly  I  saw  the  gold 
change  places ;  and  what  must  make  me  think  that  I 
was  at  that  moment  under  the  effect  of  a  strongly  ex 
cited  imagination  is  the  fact  that,  in  the  instant  of 


THE   SECRET.  101 

transition  from  Bed  to  Black,  there  seemed  to  me  to 
flash  out  of  the  yellow  heap  a  quick,  quivering  ray  of 
violet  light,  like  the  sparkle  of  a  jewel  rapidly  moved. 

But  my  impressions  of  that  moment  may  well  have 
been  confused,  for  immediately  all  was  in  uproar  and 
horror  on  every  side.  The  croupiers  started  up  ;  the 
players,  who  had  lost  their  last  stake,  and  were  hurry 
ing  angrily  away,  stopped  short,  and  stared  with 
alarmed  faces  at  the  Silesian. 

His  countenance  had  become  overspread  with  the 
pallor  of  death,  and  transfigured  with  terror.  His 
eyes  were  starting  from  their  sockets.  His  lips  were 
blue  and  hideous.  I  saw  his  body,  rigid  as  a  corpse, 
sway  heavily  forward  from  the  chair  in  which  he  was 
seated.  The  next  moment  he  was  stretched  upon  the 
floor  insensible. 


102  THE   DOCTOR. 


CHAPTER  Y1IL 

THE  DOOK  OF  THE  SECRET. 

THE  count  was  carried  unconscious  into  the  ad 
joining  room.  I  followed.  When  I  mentioned  that 
I  was  a  physician,  every  body  made  way  for  me.  I 
was  afraid  of  apoplexy,  and  judged  it  necessary  to  let 
blood  immediately.  I  never  go  any  where  without 
my  lancet-case.  At  my  request  the  count  was  placed 
upon  a  sofa.  I  bared  his  arm,  applied  the  bandages, 
and  made  the  necessary  operation.  When  I  had  no 
farther  need  of  assistance  every  body  withdrew.  I 
was  left  alone  with  my  patient.  All  was  silent. 

At  last,  at  last,  I  was  at  the  door  of  the  secret ! 
Would  it  open  to  me  ? 

For  the  first  time,  I  was  enabled  to  contemplate, 
unwitnessed,  undisturbed,  the  tissue  of  noble  lines 
which  composed  that  beautiful  proud  face  on  which 
the  semblance  of  death  had  now  set  its  solemn  seal. 

Before  me  lay — an  open  book,  but  hard  to  read,  and 
writ  in  mystic  characters — the  history  of  a  profound 
sorrow. 

"  No  !"  I  murmured  ;  "  impossible  !  Never  can 
crime  have  established  its  loathsome  workshop  be 
hind  that  pure,  fair  brow.  In  the  musical  harmony 
of  those  perfect  features  I  see  no  trace  of  that  great 
discord — Vice." 

The  blood  which  I  had  let  had  relieved  the  head. 
The  face  of  the  count,  though  still  pale,  had  resumed 


THE  SECRET.  103 

a  natural  hue.  The  horror  had  left  his  countenance. 
He  lay  there  calm  as  an  infant  asleep.  His  features 
had  relapsed  into  that  expression  of  noble  repose 
which  they  seemed  to  owe  to  nature  rather  than  to 
art. 

"What  Spirit  of  Keproach,"  I  mused,  "can  have 
glided,  furtive  from  the  other  world,  into  this  corpo 
real  sphere,  to  execute  in  the  soul  of  this  man  the 
office  of  the  avenger?" 

The  more  I  examined  the  countenance  on  which  I 
was  gazing,  the  more  did  it  inspire  me  with  compas 
sionate  respect.  There  were  lines  upon  the  face  which 
told  of  deep  sorrow ;  but  nothing  mean,  nothing  vul 
gar. 

"Vain,"  I  muttered  to  myself,  "vain  and  impuis- 
sant  are  the  pity  and  commiseration  of  a  feeble  fel 
low-creature  to  arrest  the  retributive  hand  of  Eternal 
Justice ;  but  if  it  be  only  the  toil  of  a  too-sensitive 
self-scrutiny  which  has  advanced  thus  perilously  far 
that  frontier  which  separates  this  visible  material 
world  from  the  realm  of  things  unseen,  then  be  thou 
sure,  poor  spirit,  that  there  is  one  beside  thee  whose 
duty  is  to  bring  thee  such  aid  as  man  may  bring  to 
man." 

A  deep  sigh  and  a  feeble  movement  of  the  patient 
announced  the  return  of  consciousness.  I  drew  back 
softly.  There  was  a  profound  silence  which  I  did  not 
dare  to  break. 

After  a  short  pause,  the  count  lifted  up  the  arm 
which  I  had  not  bandaged,  and  motioned  me  to  ap 
proach  him.  I  obeyed.  He  took  my  hand  in  his, 
and  looked  long  and  wistfully  into  my  face.  What- 


104  THE   DOCTOR. 

ever  was  the  object  of  this  scrutiny,  he  seemed  satis 
fied  by  the  result  of  it.  A  faint  smile  broke  over  his 
countenance,  and,  without  either  false  embarrassment 
or  exaggerated  cordiality,  he  addressed  me  in  these 
words : 

"It  is  not  for  the  first  time,  I  think,  that  we  now 
see  each  other,  and  I  have  a  certain  presentiment  it 
will  not  be  for  the  last  time.  I  do  not  thank  you. 
Toward  you,  indeed,  the  observance  of  an  empty  cour 
tesy  already  appears  to  me  too  little;  and  yet  more 
than  this  would,  at  present,  seem  to  me  too  much.  1 
wish  you  to  do  me  the  favor  to  accompany  me  home, 
in  order  that  you  may,  if  you  think  it  necessary,  com 
plete  those  good  offices  which  you  have  already  so 
successfully  commenced.  I  think  I  can  now  move 
without  difficulty.'* 

Silently  our  hands  clasped,  and  I  left  him  to  order 
a  fiacre. 

In  the  next  room  I  found  the  banker  of  the  gam 
bling-house,  who,  at  my  request,  sent  one  of  his  serv 
ants  to  order  a  carriage  from  the  nearest  cab-stand.  I 
told  the  servant  to  wait  for  us  with  the  carriage  at  the 
side  door,  where  we  would  join  him  by  the  back  stair 
case,  and  was  about  to  return  to  the  count,  when  the 
banker  stopped  me. 

"Pardon!  One  word,  if  you  please,  Monsieur  le 
Docteur.  The  money  ?" 

The  door  was  half  open,  and  the  count,  who  had 
heard  this  inquiry,  rose  before  it  was  finished,  and, 
joining  us,  answered  it  himself. 

"I  regret,"  said  he,  turning  to  the  banker,  "  the  dis 
comfort  which  I  have  involuntarily  caused  you." 

Then  turning  to  me,  "Monsieur — and  your  name?" 


THE   SECKET.  105 

I  gave  it. 

He  bowed  and  resumed.     "Monsieur  de  Y 

will  have  the  goodness  to  call  upon  you  to-morrow, 
and  dispose  of  half  the  money  in  accordance  with  my 
wishes,  which  he  will  allow  me  to  communicate  to 
him.  The  other  half  I  request  you  to  be  good  enough 
to  distribute  among  the  servants  of  your  establish 
ment,  to  whom  I  fear  I  have  occasioned  some  trouble." 

The  carriage  was  announced,  and  I  entered  it  with 
the  count.  We  did  not  exchange  a  word  on  our  way 
to  his  hotel,  which  was  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain, 
a  spacious  apartment,  au  premier,  which,  with  the  ex 
ception  of  a  few  rare  objects  of  art,  had  all  the  appear 
ance  of  a  house  hired  "  ready  furnished."  The  count 
was  evidently  exhausted.  His  valet,  who  opened  the 
door  to  us,  and  in  whom  I  recognized  the  old  servant 
I  had  before  seen  on  board  the  steamer,  did  not  speak 
a  word  of  French.  I  explained  to  him  in  German 
that  his  master  had  had  a  slight  accident,  and  gave 
him  the  few  orders  which  I  considered  necessary  for 
the  night.  The  old  man  shook  his  head  mournfully, 
and  muttered  several  times,  "Again,  dear  God !  again  ? 
The  Lord  help  us  !" 

I  enjoined  upon  the  count  the  most  perfect  repose. 
A  stupid  counsel,  which  he  received  with  an  ironic 
smile,  and  of  which  I  myself  felt  the  utter  futility. 

"  Pray  do  me  the  favor,"  he  said,  as  we  shook  hands, 
"  to  let  me  see  you  again  to-morrow." 

I  promised  to  call  upon  him  the  next  day,  and  we 
parted  for  that  night. 

"  I  wonder,"  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  left  the  house, 
"  whether  I  shall  see  again  that  woman's  face." 
E2 


106  THE  DOCTOR. 


CHAPTER  IX. 
REMAINS  SHUT. 

THE  next  day  I  waited  on  Count  Edmond  R 

at  the  hour  which  I  had  been  impatiently  expecting. 
As  I  approached  the  house  I  looked  eagerly  at  the 
windows.  No  face  at  those  windows ;  no  Loreley 
there  with  beckoning  hand.  The  blinds  were  drawn. 
Whatever  sorrow  inhabited  those  chambers  had  no 
voice.  My  heart  was  listening,  but  I  heard  not  the 
note  of  the  hautboy. 

I  was  shown  into  a  large  saloon  overlooking  the 
court.  Not  a  flower  in  the  windows  ;  not  a  broidery 
frame  in  the  corner ;  not  the  ghost  of  a  passing  per 
fume  ;  no  bonnet,  glove,  or  shawl  upon  the  chair  •  no 
careless  piece  of  needle- work  upon  the  table;  no  sin 
gle  gracious  trace  of  a  woman's  presence,  beautified 
the  cheerless  aspect  of  that  hideous  formal  furniture, 
which  remains  a  monument  to  the  bad  taste  of  the 
"  Great  Empire." 

Was  she  in  this  house  ?  was  she  in  Paris  ?  or  was 
the  count  here  quite  alone  ? 

I  had  not  much  time  to  look  about  me  before  Count 

R entered  the  room.  Holding  out  both  his 

hands,  he  came  forward  to  meet  me  with  gracious 
cordiality.  All  trace  of  the  previous  night's  excite 
ment  had  completely  disappeared  from  his  face  and 


THE  SECRET.  107 

manner.  It  needed  all  that  perspicuity  which,  is  only 
possessed  by  the  practiced  eye  of  the  physician  to  en 
able  me  to  detect  under  this  well-assumed  mask  of 
easy  indifference  the  struggle  maintained  by  the  pow 
er  of  a  strong  will  against  the  effort  of  nature. 

"  You  see  in  me,"  said  the  count,  smiling,  "  a  flat 
tering  testimonial  to  your  skill  and  experience.  Your 
excellent  treatment  has  done  wonders ;  and  I  owe  to 
your  successful  care  a  calm  night  and  refreshing  sleep ; 
the  greatest  blessing  which  the  craft  of  science  can 
filch  from  the  thrift  of  nature.  Be  seated.  I  feel  stron 
ger  and  better  than  ever.  In  this  you  have  done  me  a 
double  service ;  for  the  fact  is,  that  pressing  affairs, 
which  compelled  me  to  fix  my  departure  for  to-day, 
would  have  seriously  suffered  had  I  been  obliged  to 
postpone  my  return  to  Silesia.  To-day,  however,  I 
feel  so  well,  that,  knowing  by  experience  the  strength 
of  my  constitution,  I  have  no  reason  to  fear  the  effects 
of  a  journey.  Instead  of  thanks,  permit  me,  rather, 
to  increase  my  debt  to  you  by  a  request." 

This  manoeuvre,  by  which  the  count  obviously  in 
tended  to  prevent  a  closer  approach  upon  my  part,  did 
not  find  me  altogether  unprepared.  Before  rejoining 
him  that  morning,  I  had  reflected  on  what  should  be 
my  line  of  conduct  toward  him,  and  what  might  pos 
sibly  be  the  character  of  his  toward  me.  I  was  re 
solved  not  to  injure  by  any  ill-timed  or  exaggerated 
advances  the  favorable  impression  on  which  chance 
(if  chance  it  were)  had  enabled  me  to  found  the  hope 
of  future  intimacy ;  and  I  felt  persuaded  that  a  man 
educated  in  all  those  refinements  of  life  which  render 
men's  nature  especially  sensitive  to  the  graces  of  little 


108  THE  DOCTOR. 

things,  would  instinctively  shrink  from  the  embrace 
of  a  clumsy  cordiality. 

Without  betraying  the  least  surprise  or  embarrass 
ment,  therefore,  I  immediately  gave  my  consent  to  this 
proposal,  which  I  could  see  to  have  been  carefully 
prepared. 

I  could  at  once  congratulate  myself  on  the  effect  of 
my  reply ;  for  Count  Edmond  was  not  so  completely 
master  of  his  feelings  (or  did  not  care  perhaps  so  com 
pletely  to  conceal  them)  but  what  I  could  seize,  as  it 
were,  upon  the  wing,  an  expression  of  relief  and  satis 
faction  which  flitted  over  his  features. 

"How  enchanted  I  am,"  said  he,  "that  we  two, 
strangers  as  we  are,  so  well  understand  each  other  I" 

He  cordially  shook  me  by  the  hand,  and  I  asked 
him  for  his  last  orders. 

"No,  no,"  he  replied,  with  a  frank  and  pleasant 
smile,  "  not  last,  my  dear  sir.  There  is  no  such  thing 
as  last.  At  least  I  don't  think  that  either  you  or  I 
have  much  belief  in  that  word.  However,  if  you  will 
have  it  so,  this  is  my  last  request.  You  heard  me, 
last  night,  dispose  of  your  good  offices  without  even 
awaiting  your  permission,  by  informing  the  banker  at 

's  that  you  would  be  kind  enough  to  call  upon 

him  in  my  name  for  a  sum  of  money,  which  I  am 
ashamed  of  having  acquired  in  such  a  way,  and  of 
which  the  possession  would  be  most  repugnant  to  all 
my  feelings.  Indeed,  I  can  assure  you  that  I  am  no 
gambler.  Curiosity  led  me  (perhaps  like  yourself)  to 
that  house.  I  wished  to  pay  my  entrance  by  a  small 
stake,  and  I  only  left  my  money  upon  the  table  for 
the  purpose  of  getting  rid  of  it.  The  rest  you  know." 


THE  SECRET.  109 

He  paused.  His  lip  quivered  for  a  moment,  but  lie 
quickly  resumed : 

"  In  telling  me  your  name,  you  recalled  to  my  mind 
various  associations  which  had  hitherto  attached  them 
selves  only  to  your  name ;  for  till  then  my  good  for 
tune  had  not  favored  me  with  the  pleasure  of  your 
personal  acquaintance.  Your  name,  however,  had  of 
ten  been  mentioned  to  me  by  friends  of  your  moth 
er's  family,  with  whom  I  am  slightly  acquainted.  I 
know  the  noble  object  of  your  life,  and  I  have  even 
been  sometimes  disposed  to  envy  you  the  rewards  of 
an  existence  so  devoted  to  the  welfare  of  others. 

"  Well,  now,  you  see,  I  am  going  to  intrude  my  par 
ticipation  upon  this  good  work  of  yours.  Favor  me 
by  accepting  this  small  sum,  and  applying  it  to  the 
relief  of  that  poverty  and  suffering  to  the  cause  of 
which  you  have  so  generously  dedicated  your  endeav 
ors  ;  and  which,  indeed,  without  your  skill  and  sym 
pathy,  this  slight  offering  of  mine  would  be  powerless 
to  alleviate.  And  hereafter — " 

I  was  going  to  speak,  but  he  interrupted  me,  and 
went  on  rapidly : 

"  Hereafter,  whenever  you  fall  in  with  such  cases 
of  need  as  you  may  consider  deserving,  pray  do  not 
fail  to  regard  me  as  your  banker.  Two  lines  from 

you  to  L ,  near  Breslau,  with  the  address  of  the 

sufferer,  will  enable  you  to  make  at  least  one  person 
happy,  if  not  two.  And  now  adieu !  We  shall  meet 
again.  I  feel  it,  without  stopping  at  this  moment  to 
consider  how  or  where." 

He  shook  me  once  more  by  the  hand,  and  thus  we 
took  leave  of  each  other. 


110  THE  DOCTOR. 

Once  more  this  strange  figure  receded  from  my 
sight  into  unknown  distance ;  and  the  solution  of  the 
enigma  on  which  I  had  thought  to  touch  slipped  from 
my  grasp,  and  left  me  as  ignorant  as  I  had  been  be 
fore. 

This  time,  however,  I  felt  that  a  sort  of  link  had 
been  established  between  myself  and  this  man — a  link 
which  time  and  distance  might  perhaps  attenuate,  but 
could  not  wholly  dissolve. 


THE   SECKET.  Ill 


CHAPTEK  X. 
HOME! 

I  EXECUTED  with  great  satisfaction  the  last  orders 

of  Count  K .  I  only  knew  too  well  what  to  do 

with  the  money.  Within  my  experience  of  this  bril 
liant  holiday  Paris,  there  was  no  lack  of  tears  to  dry 
nor  of  misery  to  mitigate.  My  own  affairs  did  not 
detain  me  much  longer  in  this  town,  which  I  was  al 
ready  impatient  to  leave.  Nothing  is  more  fatiguing 
than  the  days  and  weeks  which  precede  an  anticipated 
and  inevitable  departure. 

I  hailed  with  joy  the  hour  which  found  me,  on  the 
stroke  of  six  in  the  afternoon,  before  the  great  court 
yard  in  the  Eue  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau. 

Oh,  happy  days  of  most  unvalued  quiet,  too  rashly 
and  too  cheaply  sold  to  the  army  of  railway  contract 
ors  in  exchange  for  sixty  miles  an  hour  and  spine  dis 
eases  !  days  when  life  enjoyed  the  dignity  of  delay, 
when  the  world  traveled  by  post,  and  the  world's  wife 
on  a  pillion !  Then,  as  we  jogged  along  the  highway, 
I  do  verily  believe  that  (in  despite  of  Danton's  ghost) 
high  and  low,  rich  and  poor,  wise  and  foolish,  stood 
far  enough  asunder  to  be  able  to  take  a  good  look  at 
each  other  as  they  passed  along,  and,  as  one  says, 
"knew  their  places."  Now  the  journey  of  life  is 
more  rapid,  but  I'll  be  shot  if  I  think  it  half  so  pleas 
ant  ;  for  in  the  hurry -skurry  we  are  so  tumbled  to- 


112  THE  DOCTOR. 

gether,  that  who  can  say  where  he  is  or  where  he  will 
be ;  and  'tis  but  a  sorry  chance  which  of  us  may  fall 
uppermost. 

Six !  It  clashes  clear  from  the  great  dial,  and  the 
frosty  twilight  is  falling. 

Six !  And  cheerily  issues  the  first  britska  from  the 
inner  court,  where  these  ponderous  locomotives  of  an 
unlocomotive  age  used  to  lurk  harnessed  and  ready 
when  the  hour  struck  to  disperse  themselves  leisurely 
to  the  four  quarters  of  the  compass. 

Bordeaux !  shouts  the  employe,  de  la  poste.  A  couple 
of  travelers  jump  into  the  carriage.  The  door  shuts 
with  a  sharp  click.  The  postillion  blithely  clacks  his 
long-lashed,  short-handled  whip,  and  four  colossal  per- 
clierons  strain  forward  in  the  traces,  and  start  off  at  a 
brisk  trot  to  the  merry  sound  of  a  multitude  of  little 
tinkling  bells. 

Calais !     Lyons !     A  second  caltche  ;  a  third. 

The  courrier  swings  himself  into  the  cabriolet.  They 
are  off. 

At  last,  Strasbourg!  How  my  heart  beats!  0 
dulce  germen  matris  !  (may  the  souls  of  the  gramma 
rians  forgive  me  the  pun !)  Oh  dear  mother  German ! 
Home!  and  with  what  homeward  thoughts  I  scale 
the  high  carriage  step.  "We  issue  on  to  the  great  open 
spaces  of  the  night  by  the  Barrier  St.  Denis.  I  plunge 
my  yearning  looks  beyond  me,  deep  and  far  into  the 
glimmering  air,  searching  on  the  utmost  verge  of  the 
dark  horizon  that  long  line  of  clouds  which  may  per 
haps  o'ercanopy  (oh  pleasant  thought!)  the  skies  of 
Germany.  And  as  the  restless  roar  of  Paris  (that 
never  quiet  heart)  sinks  faint  behind  me  on  the  sen-' 


THE  SECRET.  113 

cms,  cold  night  air,  I  have  little  care  to  remember  that 
I  am  leaving,  perhaps  forever,  a  world  bottomless, 
vast — a  world  of  vice  and  grandeur,  of  the  ludicrous 
and  the  sublime. 


PART   II. 

THE    PATIENT. 

To  tread  a  maze  that  never  shall  have  end, 

To  burn  in  sighs  and  starve  in  daily  tears, 

To  climb  a  hill  and  never  to  descend, 

Giants  to  kill,  and  quake  at  childish  fears, 

To  pine  for  food,  and  watch  th'  Hesperian  tree, 

To  thirst  for  drink,  and  nectar  still  to  draw, 

To  live  accurs'd,  whom  men  hold  bless'd  to  be, 

And  weep  those  wrongs  which  never  creature  saw. 

HENRY  CONSTABLE. 


BOOK   I. 

front  tlje 

The  story  of  my  life, 
And  the  particular  accidents  gone  by 
Tr-mn 


Tempest,  Act  V. 


BOOK  I. 

CHAPTER  I. 

ST.  SYLVESTER'S  EVE. 

ANNO  DOMINI  Eighteen  Hundred  and  Forty-two. 

In  the  heart  of  Silesia,  in  the  good  town  of  Breslau, 
any  body  you  may  meet  in  the  streets  there  will  be 
able  to  show  you  the  way  to  the  doctor's  house ;  and 
if  you  care  to  see  again  an  old  acquaintance,  come 
here.  Come  winter  or  summer,  when  you  will,  sure 
of  welcome.  The  guest-chamber  is  ever  ready.  You 
shall  have  the  best  room  in  the  house ;  not  without 
a  gust  of  apple-blossoms  at  the  window  if  you  come 
when  the  swallows  are  here,  nor  a  merry  twitter  of 
redbreasts  (old  accustomed  guests  of  mine)  if  you  wait 
for  the  snow  and  frost.  The  best  room  in  the  house, 
did  I  say  ?  nay,  but  you  shall  have  the  two  best  rooms 
in  the  house,  if  you  will  bring  your  wife  with  you ; 
for  since  we  parted  at  Paris,  oh  very  dear  Reader,  I, 
at  least,  am  no  longer  a  bachelor.  My  life  is  quieted 
and  completed  by  the  peaceful  presence  of  a  wise, 
kind  woman-face — a  face  that  makes  itself  more  felt 
than  seen.  And  there  are  little  chirping  voices  about 
the  rooms  here.  So,  then,  if  you  also  bring  with  you 
any  of  that  pleasant,  provoking,  noisy,  busy  little  bag 
gage,  so  much  the  better.  We  will  shut  it  all  up  in 


120  THE   PATIENT. 

the  nursery,  where  all  day  long  it  is  fall  of  the  most 
important  business,  jumping  and  skipping  up  and 
down,  and  sliding  about  with,  sprawling  foot  and 
hand,  and  building  palaces  with  chairs  and  cushions, 
and  driving  coaches,  and  blowing  trumpets,  and  mak 
ing  to  itself  a  hundred  Iliads.  For  this  is  the  Heroic 
Age. 

Only,  in  truth,  I  would  not  have  had  you  choose 
for  the  date  of  your  visit  that  wild  night  of  St.  Syl 
vester,  when  this  year  of  our  Lord  Eighteen  Hundred 
and  Forty -two  was  knocking,  in  snow  and  storm,  at 
the  creaking  doors  of  Time.  Sharply  and  bitterly— 
not  in  welcome,  not  in  love — the  Old  Year,  in  his 
dying  hour,  snorted  with  icy  breath  in  the  face  of  his 
young  usurper.  Well  may  he  have  been  muttering 
from  his  chappy  lip,  "  Turn  back!  turn  back,  ill-omen 
ed  brother !  Set  not  thy  fatal  foot  upon  this  poor  dis 
tracted  planet,  for  in  thy  dry  and  shining  eyes  I  see 
the  glare  of  fire  and  of  famine.  Thy  hands  are  empty 
of  the  tilth,  and  the  tithe  thou  hast  consecrated  to 
Death!" 

But  the  New  Year  turned  not  back. 

It  turned  not  back  before  the  gates  of  Hamburg, 
where  the  blithe  bells  rang  with  unsuspicious  peals  its 
treacherous  entry  into  that  devoted  town — bells  soon 
made  to  ring  far  other  music,  when  the  midnight  was 
bright  with  the  glare  and  hot  with  the  breath  of  the 
Destroying  Angel;  for  then,  swung  fiercely  by  the 
unseen  hands  of  the  Spirits  of  Fire,  they  rang  their 
own  death-knell ;  rang  till,  from  their  pious  habita 
tions  and  pure  lives  of  gentle  motion  and  sweet  sound, 
they  dropped,  deformed  dumb  things;  rang  till  the 


A  SEED  FROM  THE  TOMB.  121 

burning  metal  trickled  and  crawled  like  boiling  blood 
among  their  ruined  homes,  and  became  again  dead 
earthy  ore  in  earth.* 

The  New  Year  turned  not  back.  It  turned  not 
back  before  the  snow-capped  forest-hills  of  Bohemia, 
whose  greenest  saplings  had  but  lately  shed  such 
merry  lustre  in  cottage  and  in  palace,  decked  by  young 
hands,  to  celebrate  the  blessed  Christmas-time.  Less 
merry  a  light  was  yours,  old  father  pines,  that  rested 
in  the  forest !  For  nine  days  long  the  smoke  of  your 
burning  overshadowed  two  kingdoms,  and  for  nine 
nights  long  the  glare  of  your  fires  made  pale  the  stars 
of  heaven,  while  the  timid  deer  sought  willingly  the 
hunter's  door. 

It  turned  not  back,  that  stern  ISTew  Year,  before 
many  a  threshold  which  Death  had  marked  for  sor 
row.  My  own  it  passed  with  mourning  and  a  moth 
er's  loss. 

Long  here  in  German  land  shall  we  remember  thee, 
not  lovingly,  ill-fated  year !  Ay !  till  bells  on  Ham 
burg  towers  rebuilt  ring  in  some  better  time ;  ay !  till 
the  ashes  of  those  burnt  forests  pass  again  to  living 
green ;  ah  me !  till  Death  with  other  kinder  touchings 
has  stopped  the  bleeding  wounds  in  hearts  which  thou 
hast  stricken. 

Not  upon  this  Sylvester's  night,  then,  would  I  have 
had  thee  come,  dear  Eeader,  to  test  my  hospitality. 
Not  here,  indeed,  wouldst  thou  have  found  me,  but 
by  the  lonely  sick-bed  of  a  dying  man ;  not  amid 

*  One  of  the  strangest  phenomena  of  the  great  fire  of  Hamburg 
was  the  seemingly  spontaneous  ringing  of  the  bells,  occasioned  by  the 
disturbance  of  the  heated  air. 

F 


122  THE  PATIENT. 

merry  little  faces  keeping  holiday,  but  with  prayer 
and  supplication  (the  only  medicine  poured  for  him), 
keeping  watch  beside  a  long-outwearied  spirit,  whose 
sole  physician  was  a  friend.  For  there,  upon  that  bed 
under  which  already  the  grave  was  yawning,  lay 
stretched  (much  needing  rest)  the  tired  frame  of  Ed- 
mond  Count  R . 


A  SEED   FROM  THE   TOMB.  123 


CHAPTER  II 
AN  UNEXPECTED  VISITOR. 

AFTER  leaving  Paris  I  temporarily  established  my 
self  in  Berlin,  a  place  of  residence  which  I  selected  for 
the  ready  access  it  afforded  me  to  those  great  reser 
voirs  of  physical  suffering  called  hospitals,  as  well  as 
for  the  intellectual  atmosphere  for  which  the  Prussian 
capital  is  renowned.  Not  long,  however,  after  I  had 
pitched  my  tent  amid  the  Brandenburg  sands,  I  re 
ceived  and  accepted  an  invitation  from  Breslau  to 
take  the  chair  of  the  medical  professorship  at  that 
University.  Here  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  succeed 
in  soon  securing  a  connection  which  assured  to  me  an 
easy,  if  not  a  brilliant  future. 

Among  the  writings  by  which,  immediately  after  my 
return  from  Paris,  I  had  sought  to  introduce  myself  to 
the  literary  world  in  Germany  was  a  small  pamphlet 
entitled 

A    TREATISE 

UPON 

SPECTRAL    APPARITIONS, 

BEING 

A    CONTRIBUTION 

TO  THE 

PHENOMENOLOGY  OF  THE  BRAIN. 


124  THE   PATIENT. 

It  fell  still-born,  however,  and  nearly  ruined  my 
publishers,  who  were  not  men  of  capital.*  Those  of 
the  rl  viov]  class,  who  sought  to  stimulate  a  jaded 
imagination  by  new  incredibilities,  found  the  book 
flat  and  insipid ;  those,  on  the  other  hand,  who  were 
the  constituted  guardians  of  a  languid  experience,  de 
nounced  it  as  flighty  and  fantastic.  Thus  the  work 
failed  to  conciliate  any  portion  of  the  public ;  and  I 
myself,  amid  the  occupations  of  a  daily-increasing 
practice,  had  almost  entirely  forgotten  this  early  fail 
ure  of  my  literary  efforts,  when  it  was  suddenly  re 
called  to  my  recollection  by  the  event  which  I  am 
about  to  relate. 

One  night,  I  had  returned  home  later  than  usual 
from  the  house  of  a  patient,  and  was  still  engaged  in 
my  study,  when  my  servant  announced  that  there  was 
a  strange  gentleman  in  the  hall  who  was  anxious  to 
speak  with  me. 

It  was  long  past  midnight ;  but  a  physician  is  bound 
to  receive  all  visitors  at  all  hours,  and  I  bade  the  serv 
ant  tell  the  stranger  I  would  see  him  at  once. 

He  entered. 

It  was  an  old  man  of  lofty  stature  but  drooping  car 
riage.  The  dim,  uncertain  light  from  under  the  shade 
of  my  lamp  did  not  enable  me  to  distinguish  his  fea 
tures  immediately,  but  he  had  scarcely  uttered  a  word 
before  I  recognized  Count  R . 

I  recognized  him  by  his  voice.  In  that  shadowy 
light  I  should  have  hardly  recognized  him  by  any 

*  I  hope,  both  for  my  own  sake  and  that  of  the  highly-respected 
firm  who  have  undertaken  the  protection  of  it,  that  the  doctor's  pres 
ent  invasion  of  the  literary  world  may  be  less  ill  fated. — EDITOR. 


A  SEED  FROM  THE  TOMB.  125 

other  indication.  It  was  many  years  since  we  had 
last  met,  and  he  was  grievously  altered.  There  are 
some  men  who  preserve  the  aspect  of  youth  to  the  ex 
treme  limit  of  middle  age ;  then  they  seem  to  grow 
old  in  a  year,  and,  as  if  Old  Age,  having  finally  over 
come  his  victim,  was  exasperated  into  taking  venge 
ance  upon  those  features  which  had  so  long  resisted 
his  attack,  these  men  collapse  into  a  decrepitude  which 
is  quite  disproportioned  to  the  number  of  their  years. 

The  aspect  of  Count  Edmond  E was  like  that 

of  a  broken  statue.  It  was  the  painful  union  of  beau 
ty  and  ravage.  His  hair  was  still  luxuriant,  but  snow- 
white.  His  face  was  plowed  with  deep  furrows.  There 
was  a  hopeless  droop  about  the  lines  of  the  mouth. 
His  gait  and  manner  still  preserved  much  of  their  old 
stateliness,  but  it  was  the  stateliness  of  resignation — 
the  dignity  of  a  defeated  man. :  His  whole  face  and 
figure  had  but  one  expression — intense  fatigue. 

"If,"  said  the  count,  after  we  had  exchanged  a  few 
commonplace  salutations  rendered  painful  by  our  mu 
tual  embarrassment,  "if  to-night  I  seek  you  once 
more,  it  is  not  to  slip  out  of  your  hands  as  formerly. 
Shall  I  own  to  you  that  when  we  first  casually  en 
countered  each  other  on  the  deck  of  that  steam-boat 
years  (how  many  years?)  ago,  I  was  vexed  and  dis 
pleased  by  the  pertinacious  scrutiny  of  your  regard  ? 
Accustomed,  however,  to  let  pass  all  such  impressions 
without  allowing  them  to  disturb  my  habitual  equa 
nimity,  I  was  surprised  that  I  could  not,  in  this  in 
stance,  entirely  rid  my  mind  of  the  recollection  of  that 
passing  encounter,  nor  shake  off  the  peculiar,  but  in 
definite  sensation  which  I  first  experienced  on  per- 


126  THE  PATIENT. 

cciving  that  your  attention  was  fixed  on  me.  It  was 
not  an  agreeable  sensation,  nor  one  which  I  wished  to 
prolong ;  and  a  few  years  afterward,  when  I  twice 
came  unexpectedly  and  unwillingly  upon  you — when 
I  twice  found  in  you  (and  that,  I  am  well  assured, 
without  any  premeditation  upon  your  part)  an  un- 
summoned  witness  to  scenes  in  which  you  saw  me 
under  deep  emotion,  I  began  to  surmise  that  it  might 
possibly  be  something  more  than  blind  chance  which 
thus  seemed  to  insist  on  establishing  relations  between 
two  persons  so  far  removed  from  each  other  by  the 
ordinary  circumstances  of  life.  For  before  we  met 

again  at  the  hell  in  the  Eue  ,  I  had  detected 

(though  too  late)  your  presence  on  a  spot  where  I  had 
believed  myself  utterly  alone — by  the  Mare  d' Auteuil. 
Since  then,  I  have  frequently  felt  myself  impelled  to 
approach  you,  either  by  the  inward  voice  of  my  des 
tiny,  or  perhaps  only  by  the  vulgar  desire  to  clear  up 
what  I  conceived  to  be  an  error.  But  ever  I  have 
hesitated  and  hung  back  rather  than  risk  a  step  which 
might  perhaps  prove  destructive  to  a  certain  dumb 
hope  that  has  long  since  become  a  sort  of  consolatory 
custom  to  my  thoughts,  and  to  which  I  am  constrained 
to  cling  with  a  confidence  derived  from  despair  in 
other  sources  of  comfort. 

"  This  last  attempt,  therefore,  I  have  put  off  as  long 
as  it  was  in  my  power  to  do  so.  That  it  is  no  longer 
in  my  power  to  refrain  from  it  is  proved  by  my  pres 
ence  in  your  house  to-night." 

I  can  not  attempt  to  describe  to  you  the  sort  of 
shudder  with  which  I  listened  to  these  words.  They 
were  uttered  quite  simply,  and  without  any  symptom 


A  SEED  FROM  THE  TOMB.  127 

of  extraordinary  emotion.  But  precisely  on  this  ac 
count — precisely  in  proportion  to  the  simplicity  of  the 
speech  itself,  and  the  unaffected  frankness  of  the  avow 
al  thus  made  by  a  man  whom  I  knew  to  be  both  sen 
sitively  proud  and  a  consummate  master  in  the  art  of 
repressing  his  emotions,  I  felt  a  sudden  repugnance  to 
receive  the  confession  which  he  now  seemed  resolved 
to  impose  upon  my  confidence.  Any  such  act  of  con 
fidence  upon  his  part  had  been  so  long  withheld — any 
such  avowal  of  weakness  must,  I  felt  assured,  have 
been  wrung  from  such  a  desperate  conviction  of  de 
feat,  that  this  consideration,  added  to  the  sense  of  ap 
prehension  and  dismay  with  which  I  was  affected  by 
the  accents  of  a  voice  which  vibrated  strangely  under 
the  weight  of  an  excessive  melancholy,  seemed  to  give 
to  the  decision  which  I  might  be  called  upon  to  pro 
nounce  respecting  facts  yet  unknown  to  me  a  respon 
sibility  too  solemn  to  be  lightly  undertaken.  The 
moment  which  I  had  once  ardently  desired  was  come. 
I  was  afraid  of  it.  I  shrank  back  and  remained  si 
lent.  I  could  not  belie  the  gravity  of  my  own  feel 
ings  by  the  utterance  of  any  commonplace  assuran 
ces. 

He  seemed  to  understand  this;  for,  as  though  he 
had  not  expected  any  reply,  he  continued  after  a  mo 
mentary  pause, 

"  A  thousand  circumstances  of  seemingly  small  ac 
count,"  he  said,  "  combined  to  urge  me  unceasingly 
upon  the  path  which  was  destined  to  bring  me  here. 
As  though  half  the  world  were  in  a  conspiracy  to 
bring  us  together,  seldom  a  year  would  pass  by  but 
what  your  name  reached  me  from  the  most  unexpect- 


128  THE  PATIENT. 

ed  quarters,  and  always  in  some  such,  way  as  seemed 
to  place  you,  maugre  my  own  disinclination,  in  strange 
and  significant  intercourse  with  my  mind. 

"  One  of  those  chances  became  at  last  decisive — one 
of  those  chances  which  must  remain  inexplicable  if  we 
do  not  regard  them  as  whispers  from  that  mysterious 
Prompter  who  forces  us  dull  players  to  perform  the 
parts  assigned  to  us  in  the  Great  Tragedy  of  Human 
Life." 

His  voice  faltered  a  moment,  but  he  hastily  re 
sumed  : 

"My  bookseller  sends  me  periodically  the  new 
books  of  the  season.  One  day  my  glance  fell  care 
lessly  upon  the  printed  wrappage  of  one  of  those  par 
cels  which  I  had  not  yet  opened.  My  attention  was 
instantly  arrested  and  absorbed  by  these  words :  *  The 
vision  exists  for  the  actor,  but  for  him  only.  It  presup 
poses  his  action.  The  series  of  criminal  thoughts  alone, 
loithout  result  of  any  Jcind  in  action  (an  A  without  a  B) 
can  not  produce  permanent  or  periodical  apparitions.  At 
least  I  know  of  no  such  case.'1  Perhaps  you.  have  look 
ed  deep  enough  into  my  life  to  divine  the  impression 
which  these  words  made  upon  me.  If  an  oracle  had 
appeared  upon  the  wall  in  characters  of  fire,  such  a 
miracle  could  not  have  so  profoundly  affected  me  as 
this  dry  reflection  of  another  human  mind  upon  a 
piece  of  printed  paper.  I  sent  instantly  for  the  work 
from  which  this  sheet  had  been  torn.  Eagerly  I  turn 
ed  to  the  title-page.  The  author's  name  was  on  it. 
The  author's  name  was  yours.  Since  then,  your  book 
has  become  the  constant  companion  of  my  thoughts." 

He  stopped  abruptly,  and  seemed  almost  overpow- 


A  SEED  FKOM  THE  TOMB.  129 

ered.    I  could  not  answer  him.    With  an  obvious  ef 
fort,  he  continued : 

"  I  will  come  at  once  to  the  object  of  my  visit  here 
to-night.  That  case  which  was  wanting  to  your  ex 
perience — 

Again  he  stopped,  and  pressed  his  hand  to  his  fore 
head  as  though  he  felt  his  brow  must  burst  with  the 
surrender  of  a  secret  now  for  the  first  time  wrenched 
from  the  deepest  roots  of  a  life. 

"  That  case,"  he  repeated,  "  which  you  failed  to  find, 
I  offer  it  to  you.  I  would  place  it  in  your  hands,  for 
I  feel  my  end  approach.  If  the  knowledge  of  evil 
can  serve  the  cause  of  good,  be  it  yours  to  dispose  of. 
Spare  me  the  pain  of  being  myself  your  guide  along 
that  thorny  path  over  which  the  bleeding  traces  of  a 
tired  pilgrim  will  suffice  to  point  the  way.  These  pa 
pers — take  them ;  read  them." 

He  rose,  placed  a  packet  of  papers  in  my  hand  and 
his  address,  bowed,  and  hurriedly  turned  to  the  door. 

"  One  question !"  I  exclaimed.     "  The  countess  ?" 

Suddenly  his  whole  stature  rose  its  full  height.  He 
turned  round  and  stood  before  me  erect,  solemn,  al 
most  awful.  He  lifted  his  hand,  and  looking  upward 
with  a  strange  expression  on  his  countenance,  said, 
"  Yonder,  at  the  right  hand  of  her  husband." 
F2 


130  THE  PATIENT. 


CEAPTER  III. 
THE  SECRET  IN  MY  HANDS  AT  LAST. 

NOTHING  but  my  own  unquiet  footsteps  broke  the 
profound  silence  of  the  night.  I  was  alone.  For 
more  than  an  hour  I  continued  pacing  up  and  down 
the  room  in  strong  excitement,  weighing  in  my  hand 
that  pregnant  packet  which  I  dared  not  open  till  I  had 
composed  the  trouble  of  those  emotions  to  which  my 
unexpected  interview  with  the  count  had  given  rise. 

By  degrees  I  grew  calmer  ;  but  it  was  nearly  morn 
ing  before  I  sat  down,  with  something  of  judicial  so 
lemnity,  to  open  those  "  sessions  of  silent  thought" 

from  which  Edmond  Count  R had  invoked  the 

verdict  on  his  life. 

Letters  in  various  handwritings  (chiefly  a  woman's), 
memoranda,  pages  of  a  journal,  made  up  the  contents 
of  the  packet  which  the  count  had  placed  in  my  hands. 
I  read  them  in  the  order  in  which  I  found  them ;  but 
a  due  regard  for  the  patience  and  convenience  of  other 
readers  (no  doubt  less  interested  than  myself)  compels 
me  to  reduce  the  substance  of  these  documents  to  a 
summary,  reserving  only  the  permission  to  extract  in 
extenso  some  of  the  original  papers  which  appear  to 
be  specially  important. 


A  SEED   FROM  THE  TOMB.  131 


CIIAPTEK  IY. 
EARLY  DAYS. 

THE  peasant  sees  it,  for  a  moment,  from  the  river, 
when  he  floats  his  raft  down  the  rapid  waters  of  the 
Weidnitz ;  for  there  the  river  winds,  and  the  trees 
are  thick.  The  reaper  sees  it  all  day  long,  envying, 
perhaps,  the  shadow  and  the  cool  of  it,  when  the  sun 
is  hot  upon  the  red  corn-lands  beyond  the  woody  up 
land  slopes.  It  is  an  old  chateau  that  has  seen 
many  changes,  and  suffered  few.  A  massive  pile  of 
gray  stone,  with  tall  copper  roofs,  built  four-square 
about  a  quiet  court.  There  the  grass  has  a  will  of  its 
own,  and  pushes  its  way,  under  trying  circumstances, 
between  the  chinks  in  the  much-flawed  pavement. 
There,  too,  the  sun-dial  is  always  conspicuous,  but  the 
sun  seldom.  The  south  front  is  flanked  by  a  square, 
flat  garden  (Italian  style),  with  long,  straight  walks, 
whereto  you  descend  from  a  broad  terrace  by  a  flight 
of  stone  stairs.  The  garden  leads  to  a  bowling-alley. 
In  the  middle  of  the  garden  is  a  fish-tank,  full  of  old 
red  fish  and  old  black  water.  Beyond  this  is  the 
park.  It  is  not  like  your  English  parks,  but  rather 
a  sort  of  slovenly  meadow,  which  rambles  astray  in 
all  directions,  and  finally  loses  itself  in  the  great 
woodland  all  round.  There  you  may  hunt  the  roe 
buck,  the  red  deer  even,  and  the  wild  boar.  Such  a 
place  for  shooting  and  for  fishing  never  was.  For 


132  THE   PATIENT. 

about  all  this  the  river  puts  its  arm,  lovingly  and  qui 
etly,  like  an  old  friend. 

This  is  the  first  scene  which  shapes  itself  before  my 

mind's  eye  as  I  read.  It  is  the  chateau  of  L . 

And  here,  at  ease  with  his  family,  dwells  Arthur 
Count  E ,  a  wealthy,  high-bred,  honorable,  kind- 
hearted,  perhaps  somewhat  weak-minded  nobleman. 
Count  Arthur  married  late  in  life.  It  was  a  love 
marriage,  however,  and,  what  is  yet  more  rare,  a  hap 
py  one.  Three  children  were  born  of  this  marriage. 
Edmond,  the  first-born,  who  for  some  time  remained 
the  only  child,  for  he  was  four  years  old  when  his 
brother  Felix  was  born.  To  Felix  succeeded,  two 
years  afterward,  a  sister,  Marie.  Marie  was  sickly 
from  birth,  and  died  at  three  years  old.  The  more 
complete  had  been  the  happiness  of  the  countess,  the 
more  violent  was  her  grief  for  the  loss  of  her  only 
daughter.  Heaven,  however,  accorded  her  a  compen 
sation  for  this  loss.  The  earliest  and  tenderest  friend 
of  the  countess  (the  companion  of  her  childhood)  had 
been  wedded  young,  very  young,  to  the  spendthrift 

Prince  C ,  in  Bohemia.  She  died  in  the  first  year 

of  her  marriage,  giving  birth  to  a  daughter ;  and  her 
last  request  to  her  husband  was  that  this  infant  might 
be  confided  to  the  care  of  her  friend,  the  wife  of  Count 
Arthur  E ,  in  Silesia. 

This  sacrifice  was  not  made  without  reluctance  by 
the  widower.  But  the  prince,  whatever  may  have 
been  his  faults,  had  been  attached  to  his  wife,  and  was 
deeply  affected  by  her  death.  He  felt  himself  pledged 
to  fulfill  his  promise  to  the  princess  on  her  death-bed. 
Besides,  how  was  it  possible  for  a  young  man,  devoted 


A  SEED   FROM  THE  TOMB.  133 

to  pleasure,  to  look  after  the  infant  thus  left  on  his 

hands  ?  So  little  Juliet  was  conducted  to  L ,  and 

henceforth  became  a  member  of  the  count's  family. 
The  prince  soon  forgot  his  double  loss  in  a  life  of  de 
bauchery  at  Vienna.  In  a  few  years  he  ran  through 
his  fortune ;  and  one  morning,  finding  himself  with 
empty  pockets,  after  an  enforced  settlement  with  his 
creditors,  he  accepted  active  service  in  the  Imperial 
army,  and  fell  at  Aspern  at  the  head  of  his  regiment. 

Count  Arthur,  as  guardian  of  the  orphan,  secured 
to  Juliet  all  that  could  be  saved  from  the  wreck  of 
her  father's  fortune ;  and  the  little  girl,  who  had  no 
recollection  of  any  other  home,  grew  up  at  L —  -  with 
the  two  boys,  regarded  by  the  members  of  the  count's 
family  as  one  of  themselves,  and  accustomed  to  regard 
them  in  return  with  all  the  affection  of  a  sister  and 
daughter. 

Juliet  was  a  charming  child,  essentially  loveable, 
because  essentially  loving.  All  the  conditions  of  her 
adopted  home  were  of  a  nature  to  develop  the  great 
feature  of  her  character — trustfulness. 

The  education  of  Edmond  had  been  completed  at 
home  under  paternal  care. 

I  have  no  personal  experience  of  your  English  pub 
lic  schools ;  but  I  have  always  regarded  them  as  the 
great  reservoirs  of  the  English  character.  What  seems 
to  me  the  main  defect  of  our  German  system  of  educa 
tion  is  that  it  is  too  exclusively  confined  to  intellect 
ual  development.  The  motive  power  of  man  does 
not  exist  in  the  intellectual,  but  in  the  moral  qualities. 
The  quantula  sapientia  that  governs  mankind  has  been 
a  subject  of  continual  wonder  to  the  contemplative 


134  THE  TATIENT. 

portion  of  the  human  community.  But  the  explana 
tion  of  this  apparent  phenomenon  is  probably  to  be 
found  in  a  fact  too  commonly  ignored,  and  yet  hardly 
to  be  disputed,  viz.,  that  the  governing  qualities  are 
moral  rather  than  intellectual.  Our  lives,  and  our  in 
fluence  upon  the  lives  of  others,  are  much  less  depend 
ent  upon  intellectual  superiority  than  is  generally  sup 
posed.  It  is  a  common  saying  that  Knowledge  is 
Power ;  but  the  kind  of  knowledge  thereby  implied 
requires  definition.  Perhaps  it  would  be  more  gener 
ally  true  to  say  Power  is  Knowledge.  It  can  not 
in  any  case  be  asserted  that  book-learning  is  power. 
The  chief  object  of  education  should  not  be  the  accu 
mulation  of  information,  but  the  formation  of  charac 
ter  ;  and  I  know  of  no  system  of  education  by  which 
this  object  is  so  well  attained  as  that  of  the  English 
public  schools. 

It  is  not  so  much  acuteness  of  the  dialectic  faculty, 
high  culture,  or  extended  range  of  contemplation,  that 
governs  mankind,  but  rather  energy,  sympathy,  per 
severance,  conciliation,  enthusiasm.  And  in  all  the 
practical  affairs  of  life,  even  men  of  the  highest  intel 
lect  must  probably  rely  rather  upon  the  exercise  of 
(what  you  would  call)  their  second-rate  than  of  their 
first-rate  qualities.  As  regards  the  education  of  youth, 
I  doubt  if  there  can  be  any  better  principle  than  that 
embodied  in  the  well-known  maxim  of  the  Spartan 
king ;  for,  after  all,  it  is  not  of  the  highest  importance 
that  boys  should  become  scholars,  but  it  is  of  the 
highest  importance  that  they  should  become  men. 
And  this  conviction  leads  me  to  express  an  opinion 
with  regard  to  the  theory  of  government  as  having 


A  SEED  FROM  THE  TOMB.  135 

reference  to  the  general  education  of  man,  to  which 
opinion  I  have  been  brought  by  a  consideration  of 
the  principles  of  representative  government  as  prac 
ticed  in  England.  It  appears  to  me  that  the  relative 
merits  of  representative,  and  arbitrary,  or  bureau 
cratic  government  are  generally  discussed  (especially 
on  the  Continent)  within  far  too  narrow  a  limit.  The 
great  question  in  which  the  world  should  be  interested 
is,  not  what  is  the  completest  and  strongest  form  of  a 
government,  but  what  is  the  completest  and  grandest 
form  of  a  people.  No  efficiency  in  the  mechanism  of 
an  irresponsible  government  can  compensate  for  the 
absence  of  that  active  power  which  is  only  to  be  found 
in  the  public  life  of  a  responsible  people. 

The  clumsiest  motion  of  a  living  body  is  prefera 
ble  to  the  best-directed  gesticulations  of  a  galvanized 
corpse.  The  English  system  of  government  begins 
almost  at  the  cradle  of  the  Englishman,  and  the  English 
system  of  education  continues  to  his  grave.  In  this, 
I  think,  exists  the  paramount  excellence  of  both.  In 
England  the  public  school,  the  household,  the  vestry - 
room,  the  bench  of  magistrates,  are  seats  of  self-gov 
ernment  ;  the  polling-booth,  the  hustings,  the  House 
of  Commons,  the  Press,  the  Bar,  are  schools  for  self- 
education.  In  Germany  all  this  is  wanting.  Here 
education  stops  at  the  University,  and  the  intellect  of 
the  nation  is  either  absorbed  into  the  pedantry  of  a 
bureaucracy,  or  remains  in  a  state  of  political  child 
hood. 

But  I  have  wandered  too  far  from  the  chateau  at 
L .  I  return  to  my  wethers. 

The  solitude  of  Edmond's  childhood,  his  education 


136  THE  PATIENT. 

at  home,  the  absence  of  companions  of  his  own  age, 
his  premature  intercourse  with  grown-up  persons, 
gave  to  the  boy's  disposition,  which  was  naturally 
thoughtful  and  reflective,  a  seriousness  not  common 
to  his  age.  When  the  birth  of  his  brother  and  sister, 
and  a  few  years  later,  the  entrance  of  Juliet  into  the 
family,  introduced  a  more  animated  life  into  the  old 
chateau,  Edmond,  who  was  by  some  years  their  elder, 
and  whose  character  was  prematurely  developed,  found 
himself,  in  his  relations  with  the  other  children,  in 
vested  with  an  almost  paternal  character. 

Thus,  almost  from  infancy,  his  fraternal  affection 
for  Felix  and  Juliet  assumed  a  depth  of  earnest  tender 
ness,  a  sense  of  protecting  duty  somewhat  strange  to 
the  character  of  a  child.  There  is  nothing  like  that 
camaraderie  which  exists  in  the  nursery.  It  shares 
all  things  together,  tears  and  laughter,  triumph  and 
dismay,  memory  and  hope.  But  when  this  loving, 
careless  fellowship  between  companions  in  childhood 
is  mingled  with  the  sentiment  of  respect,  it  has  in  it 
an  adoration  and  enthusiasm  unequaled  by  any  thing 
in  the  more  conscious  relations  of  after  life.  It  escapes, 
as  it  were,  from  the  little  succoring  hands  into  the 
earnest  eyes  of  childhood.  How  proudly  they  smile, 
those  trustful  eyes,  upon  the  little  hero  or  heroine  of 
our  first  adoration !  How  sweet  it  is,  in  our  moments 
of  early  trial,  to  feel  the  gladdening  glance  which 
assures  our  fluttering,  anxious  heart  that  the  chosen 
object  of  our  emulous  devotion  has  comprehended 
the  struggle,  and  shares  the  triumph  of  some  youthful 
effort !  Schiller  has  beautifully  indicated  this  senti 
ment  in  the  boyish  relations  between  Posa  and  Carlos. 


A  SEED   FROM  THE  TOMB.  137 

Felix  and  Juliet  looked  up  to  Edmond  as  to  a  su 
perior  being.  His  information  was  extraordinary  in 
one  so  young.  His  nature  was  ambitious,  his  under 
standing  keen,  and  his  enthusiasm  quickly  excited  by 
whatever  presented  itself  before  him  in  the  form  of  a 
duty. 

Devotedly  attached  to  these  little  ones,  he  could  not 
bear  the  thought  of  their  education  being  intrusted  to 
strange  hands.  And  he  contrived  so  well  to  convince 
his  father  of  his  vocation  and  ability  to  become  their 
teacher,  that  the  pride  of  the  old  count  was  flattered 
by  the  consent  which  he  felt  himself  unable  to  with 
hold  from  the  serious  charge  thus  enthusiastically  as 
sumed  by  his  first-born  and  favorite  child.  This  some 
what  strange  position  which  Edmond  henceforth  oc 
cupied  between  his  parents  and  these  two  children 
seemed  to  result  so  naturally  from  the  precocious  ma 
turity  of  his  character,  that  it  did  not  involve  any  ap 
parent  assumption  on  his  part,  nor  any  conscious 
weakness  on  the  part  of  his  father.  He  exerted  no 
pressure  upon  those  around  him ;  they  exerted  no 
pressure  upon  him.  Thus  his  rarely-gifted  nature 
harmoniously  and  equably  developed  itself  without 
experiencing  any  external  restraint,  but  also  without 
the  inward  incentive  of  any  strong  passion.  Felix 
was  passionately  proud  of  his  brother.  Juliet  looked 
up  to  Edmond  with  all  the  romantic  ardor  of  an  en 
thusiastic  girl.  But  in  this  life,  so  free  from  struggle 
and  contrariety,  the  weapons  of  the  will  rested  un 
used,  and  the  vigilant  eye  of  mistrustful  Keason  closed, 
well  pleased  and  self-assured,  upon  the  peace  of  a  hap 
py  soul. 


138  THE   PATIENT. 

Thus  the  days  passed  by.  At  last  the  career  cho 
sen  by  Felix  for  himself  rendered  necessary  his  entry 
into  a  military  school.  The  times  were  troubled  ;  but 
without  this  circumstance,  family  necessities  and  the 
disposition  of  the  boy  himself  would,  in  any  case,  have 
decided  Felix  to  enter  the  army. 

This  change  in  the  customary  life  at  L induced 

Edmond  to  think  of  completing  his  own  education  by 
travel  and  intercourse  with  the  life  of  foreign  coun 
tries.  His  first  journey  was  to  England.  Early  ini 
tiated,  as  he  had  been,  into  the  business  of  country  life 
and  the  management  of  a  great  property,  this  country 
had  peculiar  attractions  for  the  young  count.  His 
time  there  was  not  misspent.  He  made  himself  ac 
quainted  with  various  agricultural  improvements, 
which  he  was  afterward  enabled  to  introduce  with 
great  advantage  into  the  cultivation  of  the  L es 
tate.  But  he  only  came  into  contact  with  that  exter 
nal  and  superficial  aspect  of  English  life  which  was 
most  consonant  to  his  own  disposition,  viz.,  that  sort 
of  methodic  reticence  of  manner  which  constitutes  the 
English  notion  of  Becomingness.  In  England,  the  be 
trayal  of  emotion  beyond  a  certain  limit  laid  down  by 
commune  consensus  and  general  authority  is,  under  all 
circumstances,  unbecoming.  Let  the  heart  bleed,  let 
the  soul  exult,  let  the  breast  feel  ready  to  burst,  when 
all  the  arms  of  Briareus  seem  insufficient  to  clasp  to 
the  beating  heart  what  it  yearns  to  embrace,  and  for 
all  this,  ay,  and  yet  more,  there  is,  by  public  permis 
sion,  only  one  set  tone  of  voice  and  only  one  gesture 
— that  invariable  shalce-liands. 

It  was  not,  therefore,  by  his  superficial  and  passing 


A  SEED  FROM  THE  TOMB.  139 

intercourse  with  a  nation  which  is  perhaps  the  most 
earnest  and  impassioned  in  the  world,  that  Edmond 
suspected  even  the  existence  of  what  was  as  yet  un 
known  to  his"  experience  of  himself — those  internal 
hurricanes  and  tornadoes,  which  sleep  perhaps  un- 
roused  for  years  in  the  heart  of  man,  but  which,  when 
once  let  loose,  are  all  the  more  violent  and  destructive 
in  proportion  as  the  will  may  have  neglected  the 
foundation  and  enlargement  of  those  bulwarks  which 
are  unconsciously  built  up  by  men  who  in  early  life 
have  had  to  struggle  with  the  storms  of  a  tempestuous 
childhood. 

Of  all  the  wonders  of  London,  none  more  fascinated 
the  attention  of  the  young  count  than  that  magnifi 
cent  collection  of  objects  of  interest  which  the  English 
need  of  inquiry,  seeking  to  satisfy  itself  with  acquisi 
tion,  not  only  in  all  ages  of  the  past,  but  in  all  parts 
of  the  world,  has  amassed  in  the  metropolis  within  the 
walls  of  the  British  Museum. 

The  marvels  of  the  East  were  then  barely  opened 
to  the  curiosity  of  the  West.  And  here,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  Edmond  found  himself  confronted  with 
the  mystic  memorials  of  a  wonderful  world  long  since 
disappeared  from  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  the  unin 
telligible  but  suggestive  symbols  of  a  vast  and  van 
ished  epoch  of  human  culture.  His  ardent  desire  to 
visit  Egypt  (perhaps  the  cradle  of  all  our  knowledge) 
ripened  with  each  visit  to  those  treasures.  He  com 
menced  with  zeal  the  preliminary  studies  necessary 
for  such  an  enterprise. 

Subsequently  he  went  to  Paris,  and  visited  with 
Champollion  himself  the  various  monuments  brought 
there  by  Napoleon. 


140  THE  PATIENT. 

Full  of  impatience,  he  set  out  for  Marseilles,  and 
thence  embarked  for  the  East.  Well  provided  with 
letters  of  credit  and  all  necessary  recommendations,  he 
reached  Cairo,  that  nonchalant  sentry-box  before  the 
fairy  palace  of  the  Orient  which  the  Turks  have  es 
tablished  on  the  ruins  of  Memphis.  There  he  hired 
and  equipped  a  boat  for  the  journey  up  the  Nile,  en 
gaged  a  dragoman  recommended  by  the  English  con 
sul,  and,  taking  with  him  his  Herodotus,  his  Stra- 
bo,  and  a  firman  from  Constantinople,  he  set  forth  to 
traverse  that  antique  road  on  which  the  human  intel 
lect  has  marched  for  a  thousand  centuries,  and  reach 
the  immortal  ruins  that  yet  retain  the  world's  last 
traces  of  that  Pythagorean  Mind  which  darkly,  faintly 
meets  us  in  the  remote  and  glimmering  avenues  of  the 
Greek  philosophy. 

Various  pages  of  the  journal  placed  in  my  hands  by 
the  count  indicate  the  interest  and  ardor  with  which 
he  prosecuted  his  Oriental  researches ;  but  the  scien 
tific  journal  of  this  expedition  was  not  confided  to  me 
with  the  other  papers  contained  in  the  packet.  Of 
the  events  of  that  journey  only  a  single  episode  is  re 
corded  in  those  papers.  The  results  of  it  in  the  sub 
sequent  life  of  Count  Edmond  were  far  more  impor 
tant  than  he  could  possibly  have  anticipated  when 
this  journal  was  written. 


A  SEED  FKOM  THE  TOMB.  141 


CHAPTER  Y. 

A  MUMMY  THAT  FINDS  MEANS  TO  MAKE  ITSELF 

UNDERSTOOD. 

IT  was  at  Thebes. 

The  archaeological  researches  of  Count  Edmond  had 
brought  him  to  that  antique  seat  of  the  three  last  dy 
nasties,  under  whose  sceptre,  after  the  expulsion  of  the 
alien  conquerors,  the  arts  and  sciences  of  Egypt  attain 
ed  so  vast  a  development,  that  one  can  not  but  admire 
as  almost  miraculous  the  destruction  by  Cambyses  of  a 
fabric  so  colossal  as  that  of  which  no  more  than  the 
meagre  and  broken  outlines  are  revealed  in  the  enor 
mous  magnitude  of  its  monumental  remains. 

Pitching  his  tent  from  spot  to  spot,  now  amid  the 
ruins  of  Luxor,  now  near  the  village  of  Carnac.  Ed 
mond  could  not  reconcile  himself  to  leave  this  land  of 
marvel  and  of  mystery  till  his  imagination  had  ex 
hausted  every  tangible  material  from  which  to  recon 
struct  that  hundred-gated  wonder  of  the  ancient  world. 

And  thus,  in  the  record  now  submitted  to  my  in 
spection  of  those  wandering  but  not  unlaborious  days 
passed  by  the  count  among  the  tombs,  I  seemed  to  see 
him,  often  surprised  by  the  great  sunrise  of  the  Orient 
in  the  prosecution  of  his  indefatigable  excavations, 
while  the  bright  and  dewless  dawn  of  the  Desert  is 
enlarging  its  noiseless  light  over  that  vast  plain  which, 
stretched  broad  on  either  side  of  the  Nile,  unites  with 


142  THE  PATIENT. 

the  Arabian  range  in  the  far  East  the  western  summits 
of  the  Libyan  hills ;  or  else  in  the  wide  red  light  of  hot 
and  windless  evenings,  bowed  above  some  crumbling 
byblus  or  papyrus,  in  patient  solitary  study,  a  slowly 
darkened  figure,  silent  as  its  shadow  on  the  sand. 

On  one  such  evening  the  record  shows  him  seated 
upon  the  wall  of  that  gigantic  terrace  which,  although 
builded  entirely  of  brick,  yet  stands  at  a  height  of 
twenty  feet,  and  measures  no  less  than  one  thousand 
feet  in  breadth  and  two  thousand  in  length.  On  the 
colossal  pedestal,  thus  formed  for  a  fabric  no  less  enor 
mous,  stands,  with  its  face  fronting  the  Nile,  the  Tem 
ple  of  Ammon  Chnouphis,  the  Divine  Originative 
Principle. 

This  immense  edifice,  of  which  the  circumference 
extends  over  a  space  of  about  three  English  miles,  is 
approached  by  an  alley  formed  of  six  hundred  colos 
sal  sphinges.  There  were  within  it  chambers  vast 
enough  to  contain  the  entire  pile  of  any  average-sized 
mediaeval  cathedral ;  and  in  each  chamber  one  hund 
red  and  thirty-four  enormous  columns,  of  which  only 
the  ruins  now  remain,  once  supported  a  ceiling  so 
richly  decorated  with  painting  and  sculpture  that  not 
a  handsbreadth  of  its  spacious  surface  is  bare  of  orna 
ment. 

Beyond  these  stupendous  structures,  and  well  wor 
thy  of  a  people  whose  enormous  works  were  but  the 
bodies  of  enormous  thoughts,  that  famous  lake,  which, 
more  than  a  thousand  years  before  it  was  witnessed 
with  wonder  by  Herodotus,  had  been  vouchsafed  by 
the  art  of  man  to  the  need  of  nature,  still  conducts  to 
the  Necropolis — a  city  of  tombs  and  temples,  whose 


A   SEED  FROM   THE  TOMB.  143 

streets  of  catacombs  are  hewn  in  the  solid  rock  of  the 
Libyan  mountains. 

Over  the  mysterious  waters  of  this  lake  to  the 
neighboring  City  of  the  Dead  had  once  glided  (per 
haps  at  that  very  hour  millions  of  evenings  ago)  the 
ghostlike  barks  that  bore  from  the  dwellings  of  living 
man  the  bodies  of  the  departed.  Across  this  lake, 
age  after  age,  generations  upon  generations  had  silent 
ly  sailed  away  from  the  sight  of  the  sun.  And  now 
they  were  all  departed ;  and  in  the  place  that  knew 
them  no  more,  the  only  living  man  on  whose  face  at 
that  hour  the  sinking  sunlight  fell  was  a  wanderer 
from  lands  undreamed  of  by  the  science  of  those  star 
ry  priests  who  one  by  one  had  paced  along  that  shat 
tered  pavement,  and  passed  along  that  lonesome  lake 
into  the  unseen  world. 

Amply  furnished  with  an  imperial  firman  and  all 
other  necessary  documents,  Count  Edmond  had  previ 
ously  set  his  numerous  attendants  to  work  upon  this 
spot,  where  now,  completely  uncompanioned,  he  had 
withdrawn  himself  from  his  retinue,  in  order  at  his 
ease,  and  without  interruption,  to  question  the  dead 
of  secrets  withheld  from  a  thousand  generations.  He 
had  just  disengaged  from  the  sheathing  lyssus  in  which 
it  was  preserved  the  mummy  of  a  young  man — per 
haps  a  king's  son. 

That  marvelously  conservative  science  of  the  Egyp 
tians  had,  in  this  instance,  successfully  disputed  with 
time  the  possession  of  a  body  whose  minutest  atoms 
had  for  centuries  been  claimed  in  vain  by  the  inexora 
ble  potency  of  corruption.  The  mummy  -was  intact, 
perfect,  complete.  Stretched  supine  upon  the  sand, 


144  THE   PATIENT. 

beneath  the  close  and  eager  countenance  of  the  Ger 
man,  lay  the  body  of  the  young  Egyptian  prince, 
whose  life  had  probably  not  numbered  more  than  the 
years  of  the  living  man  now  breathing  over  him,  when 
from  that  long  empty  husk  the  breath  of  it  had  de 
parted  three  thousand  years  ago.  And  although  in 
this  parched  and  shrunken  simulacrum  of  a  human 
form  the  vital  juices  were  withered  up,  yet  the  face  of 
it  retained  upon  its  features  the  unchanged  expression 
of  the  life  which  had  once  filled  them.  The  hues  and 
fullness,  the  bloom  and  substance  of  this  picture  of 
man  were  faded  and  fallen  away,  but  the  hard  outline 
of  it  remained  distinct  and  undisturbed.  And  as  the 
skillful  botanist  instinctively  recognizes  in  the  with 
ered  flower  which  he  examines  all  the  once  flourish 
ing  beauty  of  it,  so  Edmond,  from  long  familiarity 
with  those  dry  human  specimens,  had  by  degrees  ac 
quired  a  certain  strange  faculty  of  mind  which  enabled 
him,  if  not  to  bring  them  back  to  life,  yet  to  transport 
himself  back  into  the  life  which  was  once  theirs,  and 
thus,  by  concentrating  the  force  and  intensity  of  a 
vivid  imagination,  to  mingle,  as  though  he  were  the 
ghost  and  they  the  real  existences,  among  those  gen 
erations  who,  in  times  indefinitely  remote,  transmitted 
from  age  to  age,  as  we  to-day  transmit,  as  others  will 
transmit  to-morrow,  the  warm  and  beating  pulse  of 
life. 

According  to  the  custom  common  to  the  Egyptians 
in  respect  to  the  arrangement  of  the  dead,  this  mum 
my  was  accompanied  by  a  papyrus,  and  this  papyrus 
Edmond  was  now  busily  engaged  in  the  attempt  to 
decipher.  Here  in  the  desert,  where  to  the  student 


A  SEED   FKOM  THE  TOMB.  145 

of  the  past  the  somewhat  artificial  atmosphere  of  the 
library  and  the  lecture-room  is  replaced  by  the  ani 
mating  presence  of  realities  and  the  undisturbed  in 
spiration  of  Nature  herself,  the  count  had  frequently 
succeeded,  perhaps  more  by  intuition  than  research,  in 
interpreting  those  hieroglyphic  images. which,  for  the 
most  part,  when  found  in  tombs  or  sarcophagi,  repre 
sent,  with  little  variation,  the  mysterious  story  of  the 
migration  of  the  soul  after  death,  from  the  moment  in 
which  she  leaves  the  body  to  that  in  which,  accom 
panied  by  the  two  presiding  genii,  she  stands  before 
the  solemn  Balance  of  the  Supreme  Judgment.  Of 
this  mystic  balance,  one  scale  contains  the  Yial  of  In 
iquity,  a  vase  supposed  to  be  filled  with  the  sins  of 
the  soul,  on  which  judgment  is  about  to  be  passed, 
while  in  the  opposing  scale  is  placed  a  feather,  an  im 
age  finely  conceived  and  of  singular  subtlety,  repre 
senting  the  good  actions  achieved  by  the  soul  in  her 
past  existence. 

Although  the  Babylonian  rite  was  doubtless  very 
different  from  that  of  the  Egyptians,  yet  in  all  that 
regards  the  relations  of  man  to  the  unseen  powers  one 
prevalent  sentiment  was  so  common  to  the  various 
religions  of  Eastern  antiquity — and,  even  in  the  He 
brew  theosophy,  so  strong  a  substratum  of  Egyptian 
thought  is  to  be  detected — that  any  one  who  at  this 
day  peruses  the  strange  pictures  on  these  Egyptian 
papyri  may  not  unreasonably  recall  the  appalling 
pages  in  which  the  Book  of  Daniel  records  the  de 
struction  of  Babylon,  with  a  strong  impression  that  in 
the  interpretation  given  to  the  Babylonian  king  by 
the  Hebrew  seer  of  that  unknown  writing  on  the  wall 

G 


146  THE   PATIENT. 

there  must  have  been  an  alarming  significance  of  some 
thing  more  than  merely  earthly  doom,  and  that  Bel- 
shazzar  may  have  well  turned  pale  when  the  fingers 
of  a  man's  hand  came  forth  and  wrote  the  sentence  of 
his  proved  un worth,  "Thou  art  weighed  in  the  balance 
and  found  wanting" 

Between  two  sphinges,  the  symbols  of  wisdom,  He 
lios  and'Anubis  preside  at  the  decisive  ceremonial  of 
Divine  Justice.  Thoth,  who  is  easily  to  be  recognized 
by  the  head  of  the  Ibis,  which  invariably  surmounts 
the  otherwise  human  figure  of  the  god,  is  writing  the 
mystic  record  of  the  Soul's  Trial.  Before  him,  Har- 
pocrates,  the  god  of  silence,  is  seated  (somewhat  un 
comfortably  it  would  appear  to  any  but  a  superhuman 
personage)  on  the  upper  part  of  the  crook  of  a  divin- 
ing-wand.  His  finger  is  placed  upon  his  lips.  Final 
ly,  on  his  throne,  before  the  doors  of  the  nether  world, 
is  seated  the  Lord  and  Master  of  All,  the  Divine  Osi 
ris,  ready  to  deliver  the  final  sentence  on  which  are 
depending  the  future  migration  of  the  soul  till  the 
period  of  her  purification,  and  the  length  and  nature 
of  her  new  probation. 

But  the  particular  papyrus  which  Edmond  was  now 
examining  differed  somewhat  from  the  majority  of 
these  passports  for  Eternity.  On  this  document  a 
long  series  of  images  preceded  the  description  of  the 
soul's  judgment,  as  though  it  had  been  sought  to  rep 
resent  certain  extraordinary  scenes  in  the  previous  life 
of  the  dead  man. 

Between  the  slender  figures  of  two  youths  was 
traced  the  more  lofty  stature  of  a  man  of  mature  age. 
This  central  figure  was  represented  standing  upright, 


A  SEED  FROM  THE  TOMB.  147 

clothed  with  the  insignia  of  royalty,  and  holding  in 
the  right  hand,  which  was  uplifted,  a  ring,  with  which 
the  figure  appeared  to  be  pointing  to  a  throne,  roughly 
indicated  by  a  rude  outline,  in  the  same  compartment. 
Certain  hieroglyphic  characters,  inscribed  above  the 
heads  of  the  three  images,  seemed  to  indicate  the 
names  of  the  persons  thus  represented.  By  compar 
ing  these  inscriptions  with  the  names  of  the  various 
Pharaohs  of  the  ancient  dynasties,  engraved  both  in 
the  hieroglyphic  and  the  cursive  character  upon  the 
numerous  monuments  and  papyri  which  he  had  al 
ready  investigated,  Edmond  was  enabled  to  decipher 
and  translate  them.  He  could  have  no  doubt  that  the 
central  figure  of  the  elder  personage  represented  the 
last  sovereign  of  the  nineteenth  dynasty,  the  Thouoris 
of  Manethon,  elsewhere  mentioned  as  Ehamses,  the 
ninth  of  that  name,  the  two  other  figures  to  the  right 
and  left  being  probably  (for  there  is  no  mention  of 
them  in  the  historic  registers)  Sethos  and  Amasis,  the 
two  sons  of  Thouoris,  who  did  not  succeed  to  the 
throne. 

A  second  series  of  images,  placed  under  the  first 
compartment,  and  divided  from  it  by  a  border  deco 
rated  by  the  repetition,  along  a  horizontal  ribbon,  of 
the  initial  symbol  of  the  human  figure,  represented 
Amasis,  the  younger  of  the  two  princes,  inscribing  va 
rious  characters  upon  a  papyrus,  while  at  the  same 
time  he  holds  uplifted  in  the  left  hand  a  ring,  which 
is  no  doubt  the  same  as  that  which,  in  the  first  com 
partment,  appears  in  the  right  hand  of  the  king.  In 
this  picture  Amasis  appears  to  be  translating  and  in 
scribing  on  the  papyrus  certain  characters  engraved 


148  THE   PATIENT. 

upon  the  amulet  of  the  ring.  Sethos,  the  elder  broth 
er,  with  his  back  turned  to  the  throne,  is  represented 
in  the  act  of  walking  away. 

The  third  picture,  divided  in  the  same  manner  from 
the  second,  shows  the  two  brothers,  each  in  a  boat  by 
himself,  rowing  upon  a  stream  which  is  doubtless  that 
of  the  Nile. 

In  the  fourth  and  last  group  of  historic  figures 
Sethos  is  alone  upon  the  water.  He  is  standing  at 
the  prow  of  his  boat  with  folded  arms.  The  other 
boat  is  upset,  and  a  wave  of  the  river  is  indicated  as 
passing  over  it.  Amasis  has  disappeared.  Only  an 
arm  and  hand,  which  is  probably  that  of  the  drown 
ing  prince,  is  stretched  above  the  surface  of  the  wa 
ter  ;  and  on  the  finger  of  that  outstretched  hand  ap 
pears  the  ring  which  has  already  figured  with  such 
apparent  significance  in  the  three  preceding  pictures. 

From  this  point  commences  the  series  of  images 
which  represents  the  migration  of  the  soul  of  Amasis. 
The  soul  rises  from  the  heart  of  the  dead  in  the  shape 
of  a  bird,*  bearing  in  her  beak  the  sacred  key  of  the 
religious  mysteries.  Arrived  at  the  place  of  Supreme 
Justice,  she  is  presented  to  the  tribunal  by  the  two 
plumed  genii  of  the  dead.  Anubis,  the  messenger  of 
the  gods,  who  is  represented  with  the  head  of  a  jackal, 
places  beside  the  mystic  feather,  in  the  scale  of  the 
soul's  good  actions,  the  ring,  to  which  such  frequent 
allusion  occurs  in  the  four  historic  records  immediate 
ly  preceding  this  scene.  Thus  extraordinarily  weight- 

*  This  bird  is  a  species  of  falcon,  named  in  the  Egyptian  Baith, 
and  in  other  Oriental  languages  Baz.  It  is  noteworthy  that  to  this 
day  the  German  word  for  a  hawking  expedition  is  Beize. 


A  SEED  FKOM  THE  TOMB.  149 

ed,  that  scale  of  the  mystic  balance  which  contains  the 
feather  appears  to  be  sinking  lower  than  the  other 
which  contains  the  vial  of  iniquity,  as  though  to  indi 
cate  the  favorable  judgment  of  the  tribunal  on  behalf 
of  the  soul  of  Amasis.* 

The  more  than  ordinary  interest  with  which  Ed- 
mond  now  perused  the  mystic  annals  of  this  some 
what  perplexing  papyrus  was  augmented  by  the  fact 
that  the  mummy  itself  actually  carried  on  the  fore 
finger  of  the  right  hand  a  ring  containing  an  amethyst 
of  extraordinary  size  and  beauty,  on  which  were  en 
graved  precisely  the  same  characters  as  those  which 
Thoth  was  represented  in  the  papyrus  as  inscribing 
on  the  records  of  the  soul's  judgment. 

So  profoundly  was  he  absorbed  in  the  minute  ex 
amination  of  these  strange  and  unintelligible  images, 
that  he  had  been  utterly  unconscious  of  the  noiseless 
approach  of  a  man,  who,  now  standing  beside  him, 
with  arms  folded  on  his  breast,  in  an  attitude  of  in 
tense  and  melancholy  attention,  had  been  for  some 
moments  past  the  tacit  witness  of  the  count's  occupa- 

*  Nothing  in  these  papyri  representing  "the  Judgment  after  Death" 
is  more  remarkable  than  the  frequent  indication  of  a  desire  on  the 
part  of  the  presiding  Powers  to  adjust  the  balance  in  favor  of  the 
good  actions  of  the  soul  by  some 'extraordinary  interference.  This 
very  significantly  indicates  the  Oriental  conviction  of  the  difficulty  of 
reconciling,  without  supernatural  intervention  in  favor  of  man.  the 
aggregate  shortcomings  of  human  actions  with  the  inexorable  re 
quirements  of  Supreme  Justice.  The  conviction  thus  expressed, 
which  predominates  the  whole  of  the  Hebrew  Scriptures  from  Moses 
to  the  Prophets,  has  no  less  deeply  entered  into  the  dogma  of  modern 
Christianity,  which  asks  in  fear  and  trembling, "  Who  then  can  be 
saved?"  "Use  every  man  after  his  deserts,"  says  Hamlet,  "and 
who  shall  'scape  whipping?" 


150  THE   PATIENT. 

tions.  Nor  was  it,  indeed,  till  the  sun,  now  low  on  the 
western  horizon,  had,  in  its  silent  and  stealthy  prolon 
gation  of  the  shadows  of  all  things,  cast  over  the  rec 
ord  he  was  perusing  the  dark  adumbration  of  the 
stranger's  tall  and  stately  figure,  that  his  attention  was 
attracted  toward  the  cause  of  that  silent  but  sudden 
interruption. 

Edmond  uplifted  his  eyes  with  an  amazement  which 
was  certainly  not  diminished  by  any  thing  in  the 
character  of  the  apparition  upon  which  they  rested. 
Draped  in  the  massive  folds  of  that  flowing  milk- 
white  vesture  which  gives  to  its  dusky  wearers  a  dig 
nity  of  form  so  statuesque  that  in  their  moments  of 
motionless  repose  they  look  like  antique  images  of 
mingled  marble  and  bronze,  there  stood,  dark  eyed, 
dark  visaged,  and  gazing  down  intensely  into  the  star 
tled  faqe  of  the  young  German,  one  of  those  Kabyl 
chieftains  whose  daring  raids  for  plunder  are  the  ter 
ror  of  the  travelers  of  the  Desert. 

So  majestic  in  its  immovable  serenity,  yet  marked 
withal  by  such  severity  of  strength  in  the  supple  grace 
of  its  sinewy  stature,  so  suggestive  of  powers  hostile 
to  man,  did  that  solitary  image  appear,  as  it  stood 
darkly  and  keenly  outlined  against  the  lurid  levels  of 
the  glaring  west,  that  it  might  almost  seem  as  though 
the  silence  and  the  solitude  of  the  desert  had  suddenly 
heaped  themselves  into  palpable  form,  and  there  stood 
in  stern  and  sinister  contemplation  of  their  invader. 

The  first  impulse  of  the  count  was  one  of  self-de 
fense.  His  hand  made  a  rapid  and  involuntary  move 
ment  toward  the  double-barreled  rifle  which  was  lying 
on  the  sand  beside  him.  The  Arab,  without  any 


A  SEED   FROM  THE  TOMB.  151 

change  of  attitude  or  gesture,  replied  to  this  avowal 
of  suspicion  and  alarm  only  by  a  look  of  that  inimit 
able  contempt  which  is  never  attained  but  by  the 
features  of  the  Orientals,  and  in  which,  whenever  we 
Europeans  are  forced  to  encounter  it,  we  are  conscious 
of  the  supreme  condemnation  of  our  habitual  self- 
satisfaction.  It  is  a  rebuke  to  which  there  is  no  re 
ply;  a  sentence  from  which  there  is  no  appeal.  It 
was  not  without  a  blush,  of  which  he  was  painfully 
conscious,  that  Edmond  lowered  his  eyes  abashed  from 
that  look  of  tranquil  scorn  on  the  face  of  the  Kabyl 
chief. 

An  instant's  reflection  sufficed  to  convince  him  of 
the  ridiculous  and  humiliating  inutility  of  any  attempt 
at  self-defense;  for  it  was  sufficiently  obvious  that, 
had  any  attack  been  intended,  it  might  long  since 
have  been  made  with  the  certainty  of  success. 

''Disturb  not,  stranger,  the  repose  of  the  tomb.  It 
is  not  well  for  the  living  to  hold  parley  with  the 
dead." 

It  was  a  warning,  rather  than  a  reproach  or  a  men 
ace,  which  Edmond  felt  to  be  conveyed  to  him  by 
these  words,  abruptly  uttered  in  that  lingua  franca 
which,  throughout  the  Orient,  forms  a  neutral  ground 
of  language  whereon  the  various  races  of  the  East 
and  West  may  encounter  each  other  upon  equal  terms. 

Pleased  with  any  pretext  for  escape  from  his  previ 
ous  embarrassment,  and  well  content  to  find  one  in 
the  common  resources  of  conversation,  the  count  hast 
ened  to  reply  to  this  sudden  appeal. 

"You  might  say  well,"  he  answered,  "  if  this  tomb 
were  less  taciturn  than  I  have  found  it.  It  obstinately 


152  THE  PATIENT. 

refuses,  however,  to  answer  my  question.  And  yet  I 
have  not  sought  from  it  any  secret  of  the  other  world. 
I  simply  ask  it  to  restore  to  this  life  what  from  this 
life  it  has  robbed." 

"Fool!"  said  the  Arab;  "and  who  hath  told  thee 
it  is  good  for  tfie  living  that  the  tomb  should  restore 
to  their  knowledge  the  secrets  it  is  bidden  to  withhold? 
Knowest  thou  aught  of  the  nature  of  any  force,  and 
whether  it  be  of  good  or  of  evil,  so  long  as  that  force 
is  hidden,  and  the  action  of  it  laid  to  sleep  ?" 

"Certainly,"  murmured  Edmond,  half  to  himself, 
"I  know  not  of  any  force  of  which  I  can  conceive 
that  it  should  retain  the  faculties  of  action  after  a 
slumber  so  immeasurably  prolonged." 

The  stranger  did  not  immediately  reply.  A  pro 
found  melancholy  seemed  to  darken  in  the  intricate 
depths  of  the  luminous  eye  which  he  fixed  upon  the 
count  as  he  slowly  answered,  after  a  momentary  si 
lence, 

"  Say  you  so  ?  Yet  a  grain  of  corn,  taken  from  the 
tomb  to-day,  and  cast  into  the  furrow  to-morrow,  will 
grow  from  the  blade  cut  down  by  the  sickle  that 
reaped  in  the  harvests  of  the  Pharaohs  ere  the  glory 
of  these  was  gathered  into  the  garners  of  Time.  And 
can  you  doubt  of  the  immortality  offerees  far  mightier 
than  those  that  germinate  in  the  grain  of  corn  which 
you  take  from  the  tomb  where  they  slumber,  or  sup 
pose  that  the  centuries,  survived  by  the  seed  of  the 
field,  can  annihilate  the  seed  of  the  soul?" 

Edmond  was  no  less  struck  by  the  peculiar  tone  of 
voice  with  which  these  words  were  uttered  than  by 
the  accuracy  of  the  illustration  they  suggested ;  for 


A  SEED   FROM  THE  TOMB.  153 

he  had  frequently  convinced  himself  of  the  fact  that 
corn  found  deposited  with  mummies  in  symbol  of 
sacrifice  perfectly  retains  its  faculty  of  germination. 

"After  all,  though,"  he  replied,  "if  I  must  grant 
you  the  existence  of  the  fact  to  which  you  allude,  yet 
I  confess  that  I  can  think  of  nothing  except  a  blade 
of  corn  from  which  this  sort  of  palingenesis  can  be 
expected." 

The  Arab  approached  the  mummy  that  was  lying 
on  the  sand  before  the  count.  He  stood  over  the  wiz 
ened  corpse  for  some  time  in  profound  silence.  The 
ardent  and  intense  regard  of  those  dark  and  intricate 
eyes  was  plunged  in  piercing  scrutiny  upon  the  with 
ered  features  of  the  dead  man's  brown,  adust,  and  stolid 
face.  Not  a  muscle  was  moved  on  the  cheek  of  the 
Kabyl.  Under  the  lustrous  transparency  peculiar  to 
the  complexion  of  Orientals,  nothing  agitated  the  stern 
metallic  reflection  of  the  firm  bronzen  features,  not 
less  brown  nor  less  immovable  than  those  of  the  mum 
my  at  his  feet.  But  ever  and  anon  from  beneath  the 
mysterious  languors  and  soft  depth  of  shadow  with 
which  the  long,  slumbrous  eyelash  veiled  the  vigilant 
eye,  Edmond  could  notice,  not  without  an  emotion  far 
from  comfortable,  that  strange  lights  and  flashes,  as 
though  struck  out  from  some  fierce  agony  of  soul,  were 
passing  and  darting  in  lurid,  sinister  play. 

Suddenly  at  length  the  Arab  stretched  forth  his 
swarthy  arm,  and  seized  the  dead  man's  hand.  He 
drew  the  ring  from  its  withered  finger,  and  fixed  his 
glittering  eye  upon  the  purple,  luminous  stone,  in 
tently  perusing  the  characters  engraved  upon  it. 

"Yes, "he  muttered,  as  though  continuing  aloud 
G-2 


154  THE  PATIENT. 

some  dialogue  commenced  within  himself,  "Behold 
the  fateful  words  of  Seb  Kronos,  the  Indestructible 
Destroyer!  ....  MINE  is  THE  WORLD,  AND  TO  ME 

MUST  ALL  THINGS  COME.  I,  SOLE,  HAVE  CREATED; 
AND  I,  SOLE,  DESTROY.  I  WILL  WHAT  I  WILL.  I 
GIVE  AND  I  TAKE  AWAY.  ON  MORTALS  I  BESTOW, 
AND  FROM  MORTALS  I  WITHHOLD,  HAPPINESS.  MAN, 
THAT  ART  MADE  OF  THE  DUST  OF  THE  EARTH,  DIS 
TURB  NOT  THE  HAND  OF  DESTINY.  TOUCH  NOT 

WITH  EARTHLY  FINGER  THE   WORK  OF  FATE." 

"  Tell  me,"  exclaimed  Edmond,  "  is  that  indeed  the 
sense  of  the  amulet?" 

"  It  is  the  words  of  the  amulet,"  said  the  other,  and 
he  passed  the  ring  into  the  hands  of  the  count. 
"Blessed  thou,"  he  added,  after  a  pause,  "if  thou 
never  ascertain  the  sense  of  them.  He  that  first  dis 
covered  the  significance  of  those  words  lies  stretched 
before  thee.  Behold  the  first  victim  of  the  oracle !" 

The  Arab  pointed  to  the  mummy  at  his  feet.  Then 
taking  the  papyrus  from  the  hand  of  Edmond,  "Lo, 
here,"  he  said,  "Thouoris  and  his  sons;  Sethos  the 
elder,  Amasis  the  younger. 

"Ignoring  the  prerogative  of  birthright,  the  king 
areads  the  monarchy  to  him  that  shall  read  the  riddle 
of  the  ring,  as  being  the  most  wise  and  worthiest  to 
reign.  Verily  not  wise  was  he  that  thus  reversed  the 
rule  of  Nature.  Now,  of  the  sons  of  Thouoris,  the 
most  wise  was  Amasis ;  forasmuch  as  in  him  was  an 
excellent  spirit  of  knowledge,  to  understand  the  writ 
ings  of  the  gods,  and  in  the  showing  forth  of  hard 
sentences.  He,  therefore,  to  his  hurt,  resolved  the  rid 
dle  of  the  ring. 


A  SEED  FROM  THE  TOMB.  155 

"DISTURB  NOT  THE  HAND  OF  DESTINY. 

"  TOUCH  NOT  WITH  EARTHLY  FINGER  THE  WORK 
OF  FATE. 

"  So  Amasis  read  the  writing,  and  declared  the  in 
terpretation  thereof.  Deeply  within  his  inmost  heart 
Sethos  kept  those  words.  Even  as  they  were  graven 
upon  the  stone  of  the  ring,  so  also  were  they  graven 
upon  the  spirit  of  the  man. 

"And  from  him  the  Most  High  God  removed  the 
kingdom  and  the  glory  of  it,  so  that  the  sceptre  de 
parted  out  of  the  hand  of  Sethos  and  was  given  to  his 
brother,  that  he  should  sit  on  the  throne  of  his  fathers 
after  the  death  of  Thouoris  the  king. 

"  Then  Sethos  bowed  his  head,  and  was  obedient  to 
the  will  of  the  Most  High  God,  revering  the  words  of 
the  Oracle. 

"  But  neither  did  he  forget  those  words  in  the  after 
time.  Therefore  he  lifted  not  his  hand,  neither  in 
anywise  hindered  he  the  work  of  the  Inevitable,  when 
to  him  his  brother  (was  it  not  by  the  fault  of  the  man 
himself?  and  was  it  not  by  the  will  of  the  Most  High?), 
being  in  evil  case,  a  drowning  man  without  help, 
stretched  forth  from  out  of  the  whelming  of  the  wa 
ters  a  suppliant  hand. 

"  And  so  Amasis  perished  under  the  eye  of  his 
brother  Sethos.  For  the  waters  took  him,  and  he 
died." 

"And  what  became  of  Sethos?"  exclaimed  Ed- 
mond,  whose  imagination  was  stretched  to  the  utmost 
by  the  strange  recital  which  thus  suddenly  illumina 
ted  the  hitherto  unelucidated  obscurity  of  that  antique 


156  THE   PATIENT. 

tragedy  imaged  on  the  papyrus  which  he  had  in  vain 
been  attempting  to  decipher. 

A  bitter  smile  played  about  the  hard-lined  angles 
of  the  lips  of  the  Kabyl  chief. 

"  Saidst  thou  not  thyself,"  he  answered  (and  a  look 
of  inexpressible  mockery  accompanied  these  words, 
slowly  and  emphatically  pronounced),  "saidst  thou 
not  thyself  that  thou  seekest  not  from  the  tomb  the 
secrets  of  another  world?" 

Edmond,  again  overmastered  by  the  supreme  mock 
ery  which  he  felt  in  the  tone  of  this  response,  was 
compelled  to  lower  his  eyes  from  the  face  of  the  Ka 
byl.  They  rested  on  the  gem  which  he  yet  held  in 
his  hand.  The  mystic  amethyst  seemed  to  dart  at 
him  from  the  glittering  and  vindictive  angles  of  its 
luminous  facets  violet  forked  fires  and  flashes  of  un 
holy  light. 

Meanwhile  the  sun  had  sunk  unnoticed  behind  the 
dark  summits  of  the  Libyan  mountains.  And  now 
the  large  disk  of  the  full  moon  was  swathing  in  soft, 
argent  light  the  hot,  transparent  air,  and  sultry  spaces 
of  the  great  solitude.  When  the  count  again  lifted 
up  his  eyes,  he  perceived  that  the  mysterious  inhabit 
ant  of  that  solitude  had  left  his  side  as  noiselessly  as 
he  had  approached  it.  He  could  distinctly  trace  the 
tall  form  of  the  Desert's  dusky  son  silently  gliding  into 
darkness  among  the  mighty  trunks  of  the  colossal  col 
umns  of  the  temple  of  Ammon  Chnouphis. 


A  SEED   FROM  THE  TOMB.  157 


CHAPTER  VI. 
DOUBTS. 

ALL  search  after  the  Arab  chief  proved  fruitless. 
The  attendants  of  Edmond,  whom  he  had  left  about 
the  encampment  at  some  little  distance  from  the  scene 
of  his  strange  interview  with  the  Kabyl,  had  noticed 
neither  the  approach  nor  the  departure  of  that  mys 
terious  visitant.  On  the  morrow  careful  inquiries 
were  instituted  by  order  of  the  count  throughout  the 
surrounding  villages.  Without  result,  however.  Far 
and  wide,  for  many  weeks  past,  no  trace  had  been 
seen,  no  news  had  been  heard,  of  any  Kabyl  troop. 
Those  formidable  marauders  had  been  probably  kept 
at  a  respectful  distance  by  the  numerous  and  well- 
armed  escort  of  Count  E . 

His  interview  with  the  Arab  appeared  more  and 
more  mysterious  the  more  he  considered  it.  No  third 
person  had  been  present  on  the  spot,  or  even  within 
sight  of  the  speakers.  The  monuments  and  the  dead 
were  witnesses  that  could  not  be  called  into  court.  To 
increase  his  perplexity.  Nature  herself  seemed  to 
have  entered  into  conspiracy  with  Circumstance,  by 
refusing  all  testimony  to  the  fact.  The  fine,  smooth 
sand  which  overlies  those  ruins  showed  nowhere, 
either  on  the  spot  where  the  Kabyl  had  been  stand 
ing,  or  along  those  places  over  which  he  must  have 
passed  when  he  disappeared  into  the  temple  of  Am- 


158  THE   PATIENT. 

mon  Chnoupliis,  the  trace  of  any  footsteps  which 
could  reasonably  be  attributed  to  him.  Had  the 
night  wind,  itself  a  phantom,  jealous  of  any  other 
spectral  presence  on  its  own  domain,  been  careful 
to  cancel  before  dawn  all  record  of  that  apparition  ? 
Anyhow,  no  proof  of  the  supposed  interview  could  be 
educed  from  the  count's  knowledge  of  the  story  of 
Amasis.  The  images  on  the  papyrus  were  sufficient 
ly  unusual  to  have  stimulated  his  imagination,  and 
sufficiently  suggestive  of  such  a  story  to  have  enabled 
him  to  construct  it  unconsciously  from  the  supple 
mentary  materials  of  his  own  fancy.  There  rested  the 
interpretation  of  the  ring.  But  what  proved  that  in 
terpretation  to  be  the  right  one?  Those  characters, 
even  according  to  the  hypothesis  of  which  he  could 
not  feel  quite  sure  that  he  was  not  the  unconscious 
author,  must  have  been  enigmatical  to  the  science  of 
the  Egyptians  themselves.  Nay,  even  the  amethyst 
was  a  stone  not  common  (perhaps  unknown)  to  that 
people.  Every  thing  in  the  character  of  the  story 
seemed  to  indicate  a  theology  anterior  even  to  that 
of  Egypt.  But  how,  then,  did  the  ring  come  into  the 
count's  hand?  Had  he  himself  drawn  it  from  the 
finger  of  the  mummy  ?  If  so,  why  had  he  no  recol 
lection  of  that  act  ?  Was  it  possible  that,  in  the  act 
of  possessing  himself  of  the  ring,  the  consciousness  of 
the  action,  which  had  a  real  existence,  had  been,  as  it 
were,  submerged  and  obliterated  in  the  superimposed 
consciousness  of  something  which  had  only  an  ideal 
existence  ? 

Whichever  way  he  turned  it,  the  mystery  remain 
ed.     Finally,  he  accustomed  himself  to  look  back  at  it 


A  SEED  FROM  THE  TOMB.  159 

through  the  cliiar'  oscuro  of  doubt ;  and,  thus  viewed, 
amid  many  conflicting  and  equally  unsatisfactory  con 
jectures,  the  supposition  that  the  whole  occurrence 
had  been  a  sort  of  waking  dream  (the  effects  of  watch 
ing  and  the  distemperature  of  an  overlabored  brain), 
although  not  entirely  nor  permanently  accepted  by 
the  count  (for  what  man  in  possession  of  his  senses 
will  willingly  reject  their  evidence?),  yet,  on  the 
whole,  assumed  the  most  prominent  and  the  most  du 
rable  place  in  his  mind.  Thus,  in  proportion  as  the 
mysterious  image  of  the  Arab  was  driven  from  the 
domain  of  external  fact,  and  ceased  to  represent  a  real 
ity,  retreating  into  the  recesses  of  internal  conscious 
ness,  imperceptibly  it  assumed  possession  of  an  idea. 

An  idea  which  I  can  only  indicate  by  this  ques 
tion  : 

With  the  bodily  eye  Edmond  had  not  looked  on 
the  face  of  the  Kabyl  chief?  Perhaps.  But  had  his 
spiritual  eye  been  resting  on  the  soul  of  Sethos  the 
Egyptian  ? 

A  fanciful  inquiry  this,  which  I  seize  as  it  rises  in 
my  own  mind,  and  throw  out  at  random. 


160  THE   PATIENT. 


CHAPTER  YII. 
WESTWARD  Ho! 

THE  approach  of  that  season  which  is  the  most  im 
portant  of  all  to  the  inhabitants  of  Egypt,  who  still 
take  for  the  bases  of  their  calendar  those  three  phe 
nomena  of  the  Egyptian  year,  the  overflow  of  the 
Nile,  the  maturity  of  crops,  and  the  season  of  dryness, 
now  barely  left  time  to  Count  Edmond,  before  the 
rising  of  the  waters,  to  regain  Cairo,  the  starting-point 
of  his  expedition. 

There,  having  safely  confided  to  the  care  of  trust 
worthy  agents,  to  be  shipped  for  Europe,  the  rich  re 
sult  of  his  recent  researches,  he  set  out  without  farther 
delay  upon  his  homeward  journey. 

And  here  the  golden-gated  Orient  fades  out  of  the 
foreground  of  this  narrow  stage,  whereon  is  to  be  re 
hearsed  the  tragedy  of  a  life ;  fades,  dream-like,  into 
Dream ;  yet  in  the  far  background  still,  incongruous 
and  strange,  some  faintest  ghostly  shadow  of  its  "gor 
geous  palaces,  its  solemn  temples,"  may  haply  linger, 
even  as  the  memory  of  a  dream  will  sometimes  linger, 
out  of  place,  amid  the  business  of  waking  life,  leaving, 
of  aft  its  "insubstantial  pageant,"  yet  "a  wrack  be 
hind." 

If  we  are,  indeed,  no  more  than  "such  stuff  as 
dreams  are  made  of,"  what  function,  amid  the  brief 
activities  of  this  "  little  life"  that  is  "  rounded  with  a 
sleep,"  may  the  Maker  of  it  have  assigned  to  the  mem 
ory  of  a  dream  ? 


BOOK   II. 


Our  acts  our  angels  are,  or  good  or  ill, 
The  haunting  shadows  that  walk  by  us  still. 

FORD. 


BOOK    II. 


CHAPTER  I. 
THE  EGYPTIAN  GALLERY  AT  L . 

WITH  those  pages  which,  conclude  the  account  of 
his  Egyptian  journey,  and  of  which  the  substance  has 
been  recorded  in  the  preceding  chapters  of  the  pres 
ent  narrative,  the  journal  of  Count  Edmond  breaks 
off.  It  is  resumed  again  at  a  later  date,  from  which  I 
gather  that  between  the  period  of  the  count's  return 
from  the  East  and  that  at  which  the  journal  recom 
mences  about  a  year  and  a  half  must  have  elapsed ; 
and  I  assume  from  the  silence  of  the  journal  in  respect 
of  this  intervening  period,  either  that  the  writer  of  it 
was  during  that  time  too  busily  occupied  to  record  the 
daily  events  of  his  life,  or  that  those  events  were  of  a 
nature  too  trivial  and  insignificant  to  be  recorded. 

The  first  page  of  the  second  portion  of  the  journal 
is  dated  from  the  old  chateau  of  the  count's  father  in 
Silesia.  Here  Edmond  appears  to  be,  as  formerly,  the 
idol  of  the  household,  and  the  central  figure  in  the 
family  picture,  which,  but  for  the  absence  of  his 
brother  Felix,  who,  it  appears,  is  still  at  the  Military 
College,  would  seem  to  be  complete.  The  various  de 
tails  of  family  matters,  and  the  quiet  chronicles  of 
country  life,  which  occupy  the  early  pages  of  this  part 
of  the  journal,  I  see  no  need  to  recapitulate ;  and  I 


THE  PATIENT. 

shall  therefore  resume  my  own  recital  of  this  strange 
history  of  a  life,  which  I  have  herein  undertaken  to 
set  forth,  by  bringing  at  once  before  the  reader  the  first 
scene  which  arrested  my  attention  in  the  perusal  of 
those  pages  with  which  the  count's  narrative  recom 
mences.  This  scene  is  the  first  distinct  indication  I 
can  find  of  a  new  phase  in  the  fraternal  character  of 
the  relations  between  Edmond  and  Juliet,  and  per 
haps  a  new  phase  in  the  two  characters  themselves. 

Few,  I  think,  who,  after  long  absence,  have  been 
restored  to  the  sight  of  those  they  love,  will  have  fail 
ed  to  experience  in  the  first  moment  of  reunion  an  in 
describable  sensation,  of  which  the  peculiar  charm  is 
probably  produced  by  the  mysterious  commixture  in 
a  single  influence,  or  in  two  that  are  simultaneous,  of 
that  which  is  familiar  with  that  which  is  strange. 
These  apparitions  are  in  one  and  the  same  moment 
altogether  old  and  altogether  new ;  the  same  and  yet 
changed ;  they  soothe,  and  yet  surprise  us.  Perhaps 
this  complex  sensation  is  never  so  strongly  or  so 
strangely  felt  as  when  absence  has  removed  from  our 
sight  the  silent  and  delicate  stages  of  that  tender, 
flower-like  change  by  which  childhood  passes  into 
womanhood,  and  we  breathe  with  a  delicious  embar 
rassment  the  thrilling  and  unwonted  atmosphere  of  a 
new  and  yet  well-known  presence  in  that  magic  mo 
ment  which  for  the  first  time  mingles  to  sight  and 
sense  the  ghost  of  the  child  we  left  with  the  vision  of 
the  woman  that  meets  us. 

"With  the  happiest  emotions  of  that  moment  of  re 
union  there  mingles  a  vague,  half-conscious  sadness. 
This  sense  of  melancholy  has  its  secret  source  in  the 


THE  SOWING  OF  THE  SEED.  165 

imperfect  apprehension  of  some  indefinite  change  in 
the  nature  of  a  happiness  which  has  been  a  habit  of 
the  heart  —  a  happiness  of  which  the  permanency  has 
hitherto  seemed  sufficiently  insured  by  the  invariable 
tranquillity  of  its  character.  At  that  boundary -line 
before  which  our  accustomed  sensations  pause  abashed 
and  uncertain  of  themselves,  the  charming  uncon 
sciousness  of  the  child  is  mingled  with  the  charm  of 
the  coming  consciousness  of  the  woman — never  more 
charming  than  in  that  first  moment  when  she  herself 
is  just  beginning  to  apprehend  the  new  nature  of  her 
own  womanhood.  The  future  and  the  past — the  be 
ing  that  was  and  the  being  that  will  be  —  hover  in  a 
holy  twilight  over  the  heaven  of  that  brief  time  where 
in  the  insubstantial  present  is  but  an  airy  apparition, 
haunting  and  beautifying  the  atmosphere  in  which 
memory  melts  into  anticipation,  purifying  and  sub 
limating  the  sense  by  which  the  presence  of  it  is  ap 
prehended,  and  hallowing  the  heart  into  which  the 
sanctity  of  it  is  received.  • 

I  have  never  yet  met  with  a  man  whose  nature, 
however  churlish,  callous,  or  uncultured,  has  not  been, 
in  some  part  of  it,  susceptible  to  this  sanctifying  in 
fluence  when  confronted  with  the  presence  of  that 
mystery  of  beauty  which  is  unveiled  by  the  first  hours 
of  virgin  womanhood.  We  approach  it  with  a  defer 
ence  such  as  royalty  does  not  receive  from  the  sleek 
est  of  its  courtiers ;  and  even  when  it  manifests  itself 
only  in  that  embarrassment  which  is  the  feeblest  ex 
pression  of  it,  it  is  graced  in  our  behaviors  by  a  cer 
tain  sacred  shyness. 

The  degree  to  which  Edmond  was  susceptible  to 


166  THE   PATIENT. 

this  influence  is  apparent  in  numberless  allusions 
throughout  those  parts  of  his  journal  which  I  have 
not  thought  it  necessary  to  transcribe.  His  suscepti 
bility  to  such  influences  must,  indeed,  have  been  pro 
portioned  to  the  extreme  tenacity  of  self-seclusion  and 
reserve  which  had  become  the  habit  of  his  mind. 
Within  that  mind  thus  habitually  locked  fast,  and  as 
it  were  impenetrably  shut  within  itself,  there  existed 
depths  and  breadths  of  a  vast  mine  of  undivulged 
value,  of  which  the  multitudinous  galleries  had  not 
yet  been  obstructed  or  choked  up  by  any  internal  con 
vulsion.  Thus  the  new  sentiment  all  at  once,  and 
once  for  all,  entered  at  every  aperture  of  his  conscious 
ness  ;  penetrated,  unimpeded,  all  those  empty  galler 
ies  ;  filled  full  the  hollow  void ;  sunk  down  from 
depths  to  deepest  depths ;  and  illumined  with  a  soft, 
loving  light  the  inmost  recesses  of  his  heart.  All 
things  became  in  him,  as  in  a  church,  silent  and  holy. 
"When  he  spoke  with  her  whom  he  could  no  longer 
call  sister,  his  voice  grew  softer  and  deeper.  When 
he  was  with  others  in  her  presence,  little  that  he  ever 
said  was  spoken  to  her ;  all  that  he  ever  said  was 
spoken  for  her. 

In  short,  there  was  a  change  in  Edmond.  It  was 
the  change  of  his  feeling  for  Juliet.  Juliet  herself 
was  changed.  And  if  there  was  no  change  in  her 
feeling  for  Edmond,  the  expression  of  that  feeling  was 
at  least  no  longer  the  same.  For  her,  Edmond  had 
ever  been  the  complete  and  quintessential  embodi 
ment  of  all  that  is  good  and  noble.  What  in  others 
she  had  found  to  admire  more  rarely,  and  in  less  de 
gree,  was  realized  to  the  full  perfection  in  the  faultless 


THE   SOWING  OF  THE  SEED.  167 

impression  of  bis  character  upon  hers.  It  was  men 
tally  and  morally,  no  less  than  actually,  that  in  child 
hood  she  had  looked  up  to  him ;  and  as  childhood  ex 
panded  and  deepened  into  womanhood,  and  the  hori 
zon  of  her  nature  enlarged  its  scope,  she  still  found  in 
the  mind  of  Edmond  the  same  distance  and  the  same 
height,  and  still  looked  up  to  him  with  the  same  won 
dering,  trustful  gaze.  Thus  the  growth  of  her  nature 
had  changed  nothing  in  the  relations  of  it  to  his ;  for 
her  power  to  ask  still  fell  short  of  his  power  to  give, 
and  the  same  surpassing  proportions  still  returned  the 
lavish  response  to  the  larger  need. 

It  was  the  critical,  the  decisive  moment  in  which  it 
had  become  possible  for  the  lives  of  these  two  beings 
to  commingle  and  amalgamate  into  one ;  nay,  in  which 
it  was  certain  that  they  must  indissolubly  so  amalga 
mate,  if  only  the  deeper  and  more  thoughtful  feeling 
with  which,  in  the  dawn  of  her  new  self-consciousness, 
Juliet  now  regarded  Edmond,  should  be  met  and 
seized  at  the  outset  by  the  merest  impulsion  on  his 
part,  and  so  imperceptibly  turned  into  the  direction 
which  a  woman's  feelings,  in  that  moment  of  her  life 
when  they  are  first  discovered  by  herself,  take  all  at 
once  and  once  for  all,  at  the  lightest  touch  of  a  loving 
hand. 

But  the  moment  slipped  away.  Passion  only  knows 
how  to  strike  the  want  into  the  will,  and  grasp  the  in 
tention  in  the  act ;  for  passion  only,  knowing  well  and 
surely  what  it  wants,  stretches  out  the  hand  to  take 
it :  in  rude  natures,  rashly,  without  thought ;  in  strong 
natures,  instinctively,  without  thinking. 

Edmond  was  devoid  of  passion.     Contemplating  its 


168  THE  PATIENT. 

own  sensations,  this  nature  soared  and  hovered,  as  it 
were,  with  outstretched  wings  over  its  proper  con 
sciousness,  in  a  region  of  passionless  perception,  at 
tracting  into  itself  the  outer  world,  and  there  trans 
forming  actual  objects  into  ideal  images,  instead  of 
boldly  passing  out  of  itself  into  the  world  of  external 
things,  and  there  firmly  planting  the  foot  of  conquest 
on  the  ground  of  possession.  Thus  to  him,  his  sensa 
tions  about  facts  were  facts.  He  thought  to  pass  his 
life  forever  with  Juliet.  He  could  contemplate  no 
other  circumstantial  possibility.  This  thought  was 
firmly  established  in  him.  It  remained  a  thought. 
The  process  of  thinking  it  once  completed,  nothing 
else  presented  itself  to  his  mind  as  necessary  and  nat 
ural  to  the  realization  of  it.  The  farther  process  of 
acting  it  out  did  not  occur  to  him — to  him  the  thought 
was  an  action.  The  matter  was  fully  and  finally  set 
tled  in  his  mind,  and  so  in  his  mind  it  remained.  It 
was  a  virgin  sentiment  in  a  virgin  nature  which  real 
izes  possession  in  the  reality  of  the  feeling  by  which 
it  is  possessed.  Thus  the  days  passed  tranquilly  and 
happily  away. 

The  long-delayed  arrival  of  Edmond's  Egyptian 
wonders,  however,  was  a  great  event  at  the  chateau. 
Unheard-of  preparations  had  been  made  for  the  recep 
tion  of  these  venerable  visitors.  Half  the  house  had 
been  turned  topsy-turvy  on  their  account.  To  assim 
ilate  the  aspect  of  the  new  museum  to  that  of  the  mar 
vels  it  was  destined  to  contain,  some  of  the  old  me 
diaeval  chambers  had  been  duly  Egyptianized.  The 
Gothic  fireplaces,  furnished  after  much  difficulty  by 
the  village  mason  with  an  adequate  quantity  of  py- 


THE  SOWING  OF  THE  SEED.  169 

lones  and  capitals,  gradually  contrived  to  assume  as 
sepulchral  and  forbidding  an  appearance  as  could  pos 
sibly  be  desired,  and  finally  looked  as  proud  of  them 
selves  as  if  the  only  ashes  they  had  ever  contained 
were  those  of  Osiris  himself. 

The  workmen  had  bivouacked  in  the  best  rooms, 
and  kept  up  a  series  of  light  skirmishes  about  the  rest 
of  the  house  for  several  months ;  so  that,  when  at  last 
the  arrival  of  the  gods  was  announced,  all  was  in  readi 
ness  for  their  reception  with  due  honor  and  dignity. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  untraveled  members 
of  the  household  felt  themselves  to  be  on  quite  friend 
ly  terms  with  the  mummies.  But  the  beautiful  seri 
ous  sphinges,  with  their  smooth  lion-limbs,  and  serene 
human  faces,  immediately  made  themselves  perfectly 
at  home.  Speedy  popularity,  too,  was  acquired  by 
the  placid  divinities  themselves,  with  their  quiet,  as 
tonished,  childish  faces,  notwithstanding  their  very  dis 
tressing  habit  of  permanently  keeping  one  leg  raised 
at  an  angle  of  thirty  degrees  above  the  ground,  appa 
rently  with  no  object  but  to  make  one  feel  uncomfort 
able  in  trying  to  realize  the  extent  of  discomfort  sug 
gested  by  such  a  position.  Their  neat  priestly  head 
dresses  (worn  to  this  day  in  Egypt),  and  their  quiet 
behavior,  and  sleek,  lustrous  limbs  of  polished  granite, 
did  much,  moreover,  to  mollify  in  their  favor  the  in 
stinctive  repugnance  for  "pagan  idols,  and  eutlandish, 
heathenish  images,"  with  which  the  uncritical  menial 
mind  was  disposed  at  first  to  regard  these  chaste 
embodiments  of  the  speculative  thought  of  Ancient 
Egypt.  Every  body  cheerfully  lent  a  helping  hand 
to  the  arrangement  of  the  museum,  which  soon  pre- 

H 


170  THE  PATIENT. 

sented  a  very  respectable  arrangement  of  gems,  scara- 
bsei,  sphinges,  stuffed  crocodiles,  and  tupinambes,  sar 
cophagi,  statues,  papyri,  pedestals,  plinths,  capitals, 
gods,  and  columns. 


"Oh  beautiful!  what  a  magnificent  ring!" 

It  is  Juliet  that  makes  this  exclamation.  She  is 
helping  Edmond,  as  usual,  this  afternoon  to  assort 
and  arrange  sundry  little  odds  and  ends  of  antiquity 
that  are  still  to  be  put  in  order.  She  takes  the  ring 
from  its  little  cotton  bed  in  the  case  where  she  has 
just  found  it;  holds  it  up,  and  turns  about  the  stone 
(a  beautiful  purple  amethyst)  in  the  warm  light  that  is 
streaming  in,  and  beaming  on  her  bright  young  face 
through  the  high  window  of  the  Egyptian  Gallery. 

Edmond  is  busily  occupied  in  stretching  out  a  pa 
pyrus,  which  appears  to  be  in  an  advanced  state  of  de 
composition.  He  is  not  paying  much,  attention  to 
Juliet  just  now,  so  he  answers  without  turning  his 
head.  "  What !  have  you  really  found,  after  all,  some 
thing  that  pleases  you  among  these  uncannie  curiosi 
ties?  How  glad  lam!" 

"  Thanks,  Edmond !  It  is  perfect.  Suits  me  ex 
actly.  I  suspect  you  must  have  had  it  made  express 
ly  for  me  by  one  of  the  goldsmiths  of  Serastro." 

So  says  Juliet,  her  ideas  about  matters  Egyptian  not 
ranging  beyond  sundry  confused  recollections  of  the 
libretto  of  the  Zauberflote. 

"  See  how  it  fits  my  finger !"  and  she  spreads  out 
her  five  slender  little  fingers  to  be  looked  at,  and  suns 
her  soft  white  hand  in  the  warm  light. 


THE   SOWING  OF  THE  SEED.  171 

"  Charming !  Now  don't  suppose  that  you  are  ever 
to  regain  possession  of  this  ring.  It  is  mine,  do  you 
understand  ?  forever  and  ever.  Par  droit  de  conquete 
et  par  droit  de  naissance.  Do  you  hear  ?  for  it  certain 
ly  must  have  been  made  for  me,  or  I  for  it.  See! 
And  I  intend  never  to  yield  it  but  with  my  life.  Gore 
aux  voleurs  ! 

But  Edmond  is  still  too  busy  with  his  papyrus  to 
turn  round  and  admire  the  rosy,  impudent  little  finger 
that  is  shaking  defiance  at  all  the  divinities  of  the  Nile. 

"  Ah !  Juliet,  Juliet,  boast  not  too  loud,  or  at  least 
too  soon.  (Another  woful  rent  in  this  poor  papyrus. 
Sad  !)  If  you  will  not  yield  the  ring  but  with  your 
life,  then  must  you  give  it  to  whoever  shall  one  day 
be  the  possessor  of  that  same  dear  life  of  yours ;  and 
may  he  take  good  care  of  both  the  precious  gifts !" 

"  So  be  it!"  she  answers,  laughing.  "  And  it  shall 
be  my  spousal  ring.  This  and  no  other.  I  am  sure, 
too,  it  will  bring  me  good  luck.  'Tis  doubtless  an 
amulet  or  a  talisman.  See  the  wonderful  characters 
here  on  the  stone !  Some  mighty  meaning  they  must 
have,  no  doubt.  One  fancies  how  some  old  wizard 
must  have  puzzled  his  own  wise  head  how  best  to 
puzzle  all  the  foolish  heads  in  the  world  with  this 
posy,  for  years  and  years,  till  at  last  he  turned  himself 
into  a  stone,  like  your  friends  Horus  and  Anubis,  and 
what  other  spider-legged  gods  you  may  please  to  teach 
me  the  unpronounceable  names  of." 

So  saying  and  so  laughing,  she  comes  up  to  Ed 
mond,  stooping  all  the  fragrance  of  her  soft  brown 
hair  over  that  unsavory  papyrus  which  he  has  just 
succeeded  in  lodging  safely  under  its  glass  frame. 


172  THE   PATIENT. 

So  this  time  Edmond  turns  round,  and  .... 
ah!  that  ever-recurring  note  of  the  hautboy  in  my 
ears !  .  .  .  .  there  comes  over  him,  all  at  once, 
a  sort  of  cold,  creepy  shudder,  and  that  strangely- 
common  feeling  in  the  hair,  as  if  damp  fingers  of  an 
unseen  hand  were  passing  through  the  roots  of  it  from 
behind.  Nor,  though  I  fancy  him  to  be  standing  full 
in  the  sunshine  of  Juliet's  laughing  eyes,  am  I,  on  the 
whole,  I  must  confess,  disposed  to  wonder  very  much 
at  this  uncomfortable  feeling  which  he  describes  him 
self  to  have  felt  just  then,  for  the  ring  which  he  sees 
on  the  finger  of  Juliet  is  the  antique  ring  of  Seb  Kro- 
nos,  which  he  had  first  seen  on  the  finger  of  Amasis 
of  Thebes. 

Instantaneously,  as  at  the  touch  of  a  wizard's  wand, 
all  his  senses  are  transported  back  amid  the  imme 
morial  ruins  of  the  temple  of  Ammon  Chnouphis. 
He  sees  and  hears  the  irrevocable  rolling  of  the  an 
cient  Nile.  Out  from  the  whelming  wave,  upstretched 
as  though  to  him,  in  agonizing  effort,  he  sees  the  arm 
and  hand  of  Amasis.  Alone  on  the  prow  of  his  boat, 
standing  unmoved,  immovable,  he  sees  Sethos  the 
Egyptian.  And  the  features  of  the  face  of  Sethos  are 
the  features  of  the  face  of  the  Kabyl  chief.  He  feels 
fixed  keenly  on  his  own  the  venomous  eye  of  the 
Arab.  Out  from  the  incandescent  heart  of  the  kin 
dling  amethyst  begin  to  dartle  and  to  flash  violet  rays 
of  lurid  fire;  and  the  fiery  rays  fiercely  writhe  and 
twist,  and  weave  themselves  up  into  the  empty  air 
before  his  eyes  into  angry  letters  of  a  luminous,  be 
wildering  writing.  Forthwith  come  faint  and  rar-off 
sounds,  as  though  out  of  illimitable  distance ;  and  the 


THE  SOWING  OF  THE  SEED.  173 

sounds  enter,  like  wicked  souls,  into  the  violet  flame- 
bodies  of  the  lurid  letters  of  the  written  words,  so  that 
the  words  begin  to  mutter  and  to  speak  to  him ;  and 
he  hears  the  voices  of  the  words  as  a  man  hears  voices 
in  a  dream,  which  make  a  sound  that  is  like  a  silence. 
And  the  sentence  of  the  words  that  are  uttered  by  the 
flame  is  the  sentence  of  the  words  of  Seb  Kronos,  the 
Indestructible  Destroyer:  "To  MORTALS  I  GIVE,  AND 
FROM  MORTALS  I  TAKE,  HAPPINESS.  DISTURB  NOT 
THE  HAND  OF  DESTINY  !" 

"  Well,  whenever  you  have  finished  your  profound 
perusal  of  my  talisman,  I  shall  expect  you,  Edmond, 
to  satisfy  my  curiosity  with  the  interpretation  of  the 
hieroglyphics." 

It  is  the  voice  of  Juliet  beside  him.  This  sweet 
voice  shatters  the  weird  spell,  and  recalls  him  at  once 
within  the  sphere  of  that  gentle  presence,  whose  sunny 
serenity  is  incapable  of  being  troubled  by  any  wizardry 
more  wicked  than  perhaps  the  pert  pranks  of  some 
playful  Puck.  Immediately  all  the  magic  was  melted 
out  of  the  ring;  and  Edmond,  ashamed  of  his  own 
unaccountable,  but  merely  momentary  disturbance  of 
mind,  was  just  about  to  explain  to  Juliet  that  he  had 
in  vain  attempted  to  decipher  the  hieroglyphics,  when, 
suddenly  and  blithely,  in  the  great  court-yard  outside, 
sound  the  shrill,  clear  notes  of  a  postillion's  horn.  It 
was  no  doubt  the  distant  notes  of  this  horn  which,  a 
few  moments  ago,  had  lent  their  phantom  echoes  to 
the  fancied  language  of  the  fiery  letters,  in  that  rapid 
vision  which  had  rushed  for  but  an  instant  across  the 
mind  of  Edmond.  And  thus  a  jolly  German  post-boy, 
blowing  his  horn,  as  he  bumped  along,  in  leather 


174  THE  PATIENT. 

breeches,  on  his  way  to  the  chateau,  had  unconsciously 
been  enacting,  in  the  imaginary  drama  of  another 
man's  mind,  no  less  solemn  and  important  a  part  than 
that  of  the  divine  Seb  Kronos. 

Immediately  afterward  a  post-chaise  rolls  rumbling 
into  the  court,  beneath  the  window  where  Edmond  is 
standing  with  Juliet.  A  light  elastic  step  in  rapid 
movement  on  the  stair ;  confused  voices  along  the  cor 
ridor  ;  nearer  and  clearer ;  the  door  is  dashed  open ; 
wherethrough  also  comes  dashing  at  full  speed,  with 
a  mighty  clatter  of  spurs  and  sabre,  into  the  Egyptian 
Gallery,  quite  regardless  of 

"Osiris,  Apis,  Orus,  and  their  crew," 

a  blooming  young  officer;  and  Felix,  with  a  light,  joy 
ous  laugh,  flings  himself  into  the  arms  of  Edmond. 


THE  SOWING  OF  THE  SEED.  175 


CHAPTEK  II. 
FELIX. 

THIS  was  the  first  meeting  of  the  brothers  since 
Edmond's  return.  When  Edmond  came  home  from 
his  Egyptian  journey,  Felix  was  still  at  the  military 

school  at  M .     Soon  after  his  arrival  at  L , 

Edmond  wrote  from  the  chateau  to  Felix,  proposing 

to  visit  him  at  M in  case  his  brother  should  be 

unable  to  obtain  leave  of  absence.  To  this  proposal 
Felix  replied  speedily  and  privately  by  the  following 
letter,  which  I  select  from  the  numerous  papers  made 
over  to  me  by  the  count,  and  copy  without  alteration 
or  abridgment,  as  a  tolerably  fair  specimen  of  the  dif 
ference  of  character  between  the  two  brothers. 


FELIX  TO  EDMOND. 

M .     Marked  Private  and  Confidential. 

Undated. 

"  Brother,  don't  come  !  Keep  my  secret ;  but,  for 
God's  sake,  don't  come.  Fancy  me  crammed  up  to 
my  ears  for  examination ;  loaded  up  to  the  muzzle 
(do  you  understand?)  and  ready  to  go  off.  I  mean 
to  take  the  dear  old  gentlefolks  at  home  by  surprise, 
and  so  I  am  going  up  a  month  before  term.  I  can't 
hold  out  any  longer.  I  can't  live  on  in  this  way,  sep- 


176  THE   PATIEXT. 

tirated  from  all  of  you.  I  can't  bear  it,  I  say.  And 
so,  heighho !  there  is  no  help  for  it  but  to  work,  work, 
work  (and  oh !  if  you  knew  how  I  hate  working !), 
day  and  night,  night  and  day,  at  square  root  and  cube, 
cube  root  and  square,  till  I  am  fairly  in  the  way  to 
reduce  myself  to  a  decimal  fraction.  Now,  shouldst 
thou  come  here,  and  were  I  to  see  thee,  thou  best  and 
dearest  of  men,  it  would  be  all  up  with  the  curves  and 
hyperboles.  For,  as  for  the  mathematics,  know  that 
I  am  a  dunce  among  the  dunces.  *  Oh  dear  Horatio, 
I  am  ill  at  these  matters,'  and  what  between  plus  here 
and  minus  there,  hang  it !  the  game  lies  so  close,  and 
the  cover  is  so  thick,  that  I  am  always  making  a 
false  point  of  it,  in  despite  of  all  thy  teaching  and 
training,  oh  thou  inimitable  Euclid !  No !  by  St.  Hu 
bert  I  swear  it,  till  all  is  fairly  over,  I  will  hear  and 
think  of  nothing  but  the  emtli  root  of  m  (mark  this  !) 
plus  n,  to  the  power  of  s,  plus  m  minus  n  to  the  power 
of?'  minus  m  plus  n  minus  q  to  the  power  of  t  plus  the 
emth  root  of  r,  divided  by  m  plus  n  plus  p  plus  q  plus  r 
2)lus  &  y  z  botherorum  ....  Ouff  Bacchus, 
Apollo,  divorum  ! 

"  Brandy  and  Seltzer-water !  and  find  me  the  enfli 
root  of  it  all,  if  you  can.  My  head  whirls,  Edmond, 
when  I  think  how  I  might  be  hugging  you  all  to  my 
heart  of  hearts  just  now,  instead  of  splitting  these  dull 
brains  of  mine  on  all  the  tormenting  angles  of  trigo 
nometry  !  To  say  nothing  of  these  lamentable  loga 
rithms  !  "Well,  well !  thank  Heaven,  it  only  wants 
eighty-seven  days  now  to  Easter !  Eighty-seven  days 
at  twenty -four  hours  per  diem,  minus  six  hours'  sleep 
('tis  the  least  I  can  do  with),  equals  two  thousand  and 


THE  SOWING  OF  THE  SEED.  177 

eighty-eight  hours  minus  five  hundred  and  twenty- 
two  hours ;  equals  fifteen  hundred  and  sixty -six  hours. 
Minus  again  twenty-five  minutes  one  and  a  quarter 
seconds  per  diem  for  breakfast,  dinner,  et  caetera,  re 
mains  fifteen  hundred  and  twenty-two  hours.  Then 
there  is  still  minus  two  hours  per  diem  riding — (oh  ! 
you  should  see  the  old  roan  now !  I  have  her  down 
here,  in  first-rate  condition) — that  makes  one  thousand 
four  hundred  and  sixteen  hours'  work.  And  in  this 
space  of  time  must  I  mark,  learn,  and  inwardly  digest. 
Differential  Calculus.  Faith!  'tis  enough  to  make  a 
man  mount  on  a  Mutter-mine,  and  blow  out  his  brains, 
the  sooner  to  get  rid  of  all  the  stuff  he  has  got  into 
them.  No  matter,  though  !  All  is  going  on  well.  I 
shall  manage  to  swallow  the  whole  dose,  I  think.  I 
am  not  afraid  of  the  drugs,  least  of  all  of  the  Military 
History  part  of  the  emetic.  Let  them  only  ask  me 
who  gained  the  battle  of  Preston  Pans,  and  if  I  answer 
Frederick  the  Great,  I  should  like  to  see  the  Konig- 
licher  Preussischer  Professor  who  will  venture  to 
pluck  me.  Humph ! 

"  Brother,  brother,  not  a  word  of  all  this !  Ear  of 
my  heart  as  thou  art,  be  silent — silent  as  the  tombs  of 
Nineveh.  "Where  is  Nineveh,  by  the  way  ?  I  hope 
they'll  not  ask  me  that.  I  suspect  it  must  be  in  Pom- 
erania :  five  hundred  inhabitants ;  one  thousand  seven 
hundred  houses ;  one  Protestant  chapel ;  ditto  three 
Moravian ;  eight  synagogues ;  two  porcelain  manu 
factories  ;  and — if  that's  not  right,  the  devil  take  the 
geographers  for  putting  it  into  my  head ! 

"  Oh  Edmond !  Edmond !  if  you  did  but  know  what 
goes  on  in  this  head  of  mine !  Is  it  not  a  shame  to 
H2 


178  THE  PATIENT. 

tliink  how  many  things  have  taken  place  in  the  world 
which  I,  poor  devil !  must  needs  know  something 
about  now  ?" 

"  'Tis  enough,  oh  brother  mine,  to  put  me  in  envy 
of  the  good  old  times  of  Cain  and  Abel.  Lucky  dogs, 
those  brothers !  Nothing  had  then  happened  to  trou 
ble  men's  heads  but  a  damned  apple.  Easy  enough 
in  those  days  to  pass  one's  examination.  And  if  only 
that  silly  fellow  Cain — fool !  not  to  know  the  worth 

of  his  own  good  luck !  why  must  he  needs 

But  'tis  I  am  the  fool,  brother  Edmond.  Dolt !  how 
came  this  nonsense  into  my  head?  I  to  be  prating 
of  Cain — such  a  fellow  as  Cain,  forsooth ! — I,  who  am 
writing  to  Edmond — Edmond,  my  prince  of  good  fel 
lows — the  best  of  brothers. and  dearest  of  men ! 

"  Ay,  and  believe  it,  brother — for,  trust  me,  this  is 
as  true  and  sure  as  that  the  sine  of  the  angle  is  equal 
to  the  cosines  multiplied  by  the  tangent  of  it,  or  no 
matter  in  whatsoever  other  formula  thou  mayest  be 
graciously  pleased  to  receive  the  assurance — to  no  man 
on  earth  is  Edmond  half  so  dearly  dear  as  to  his  stu 
pid,  good  for  nothing,  but  faithful  and  ever  loving 

"  FELIX." 

Edmond  faithfully  kept  his  brother's  secret.  He 
wrote  to  Felix  two  or  three  times  a  week,  to  encour 
age  him.  But  he  had  not  expected  him  home  so  soon. 

For  I  find,  by  reference  to  the  dates  of  the  papers  in 
my  hands,  that  the  day  on  which  this  event  occurred 
was  the  21st  of  March,  1813. 

So,  after  the  first  joyous  greetings  were  over,  Ed 
mond  drew  his  brother  aside. 


THE   SOWING  OF  THE  SEED.  179 

"  How  about  the  examination  ?"  he  whispers  to  Fe 
lix.  "Can  I  speak  out  about  it  now?  Are  we  to 
congratulate  you  ?" 

Whereupon  Master  Felix  bursts  into  an  immoder 
ate  fit  of  laughter ;  and,  turning  round  to  the  others, 

"Oh,  ay!  the  examination?"  says  he.  "A  famous 
farce,  and  you  shall  hear  all  about  it. 

"'Passed  my  examination,  have  I,  do  you  ask?  I 
should  think  I  have  passed  it,  indeed !  And  what  sort 
of  an  examination,  too  ?  That  is  the  best  of  the  joke. 
Faith!  brother  Edmond,  I  verily  believe  that  the 
Seven  Sages  of  Greece,  and  yourself  into  the  bargain, 
had  you  all  been  present  on  that  auspicious  occasion, 
would  have  held  your  sides  for  laughing, 

"But  no  matter.  The  thing  is  done.  This  time, 
as  luck  would  have  it,  it  was  not  I,  but  the  professors 
themselves  that  were  at  pains  to  pull  rne  through. 
Never  yet,  you  may  be  sure,  was  the  Ass's  Bridge 
made  so  smooth  to  the  hoof  of  the  ass ;  for,  be  it  here 
by  known  to  all  whom  it  may  concern,  that  it  was  set 
tled  beforehand  in  the  council  of  the  gods  that  I  should 
be,  with  the  utmost  expedition  compatible  with  the 
constitution  of  the  Prussian  mind,  an  officer  in  His 
Majesty's  Army.  The  great  Napoleon  absolutely  in 
sisted  on  it. 

"  Why  are  you  all  staring  at  me  in  that  way  ?  Do 
none  of  you  know,  here  in  your  corner,  what  the 
whole  world  is  about  outside  ? 

"Our  King  has  appealed  to  the  people  ! 

"No  more  University,  no  more  Lyceum,  no  more 
Military  Colleges,  no  more  Government  Offices !  Stu 
dent  and  schoolboy,  cadet  and  clerk — in  short,  every 


180  THE  PATIENT. 

man  that  can  bear  arms,  is  turned  soldier !  Hurrah ! 
the  French  garrison  has  walked  itself  off— bolted — 
cut  its  sticks ! 

"  When  I  left  Berlin  on  the  17th,  York,  the  fine  old 
York,  entered  the  town  at  the  head  of  seventeen  thou-v 
sand  picked  troops.  You  should  have  seen  the  rejoic 
ing  there  was  that  day. 

"Yesterday  I  presented  myself  before  Lutzow  at 
Breslau ;  enrolled  myself  the  same  day  in  his  Free 
corps ;  and,  what  is  more,  Edmond,  you  are  my  com 
rade  and  fellow-officer ;  for  your  commission,  old  fel 
low,  is  signed,  sealed,  and  packed  up  in  my  port 
manteau. 

"  What  say  you  ?  I  and  you,  cum  canibus  nostris — 
all  our  dogs — are  after  the  Bonaparte.  The  old  fox 
has  broken  cover,  and  there  is  nothing  but  tallyho ! 
after  the  heels  of  him  from  one  end  of  the  land  to  the 
other.  What  fun ! 

"  To-day  and  to-morrow  are  still  ours  to  make  the 
most  of,  mother.  After  to-morrow  I  promised  Lutzow 
that  we  would  both  appear  under  arms." 


The  political  events  in  Europe  which  followed  the 
scene  witnessed  by  Felix  on  the  17th  of  March,  1813, 
are  well  known. 

Merged  in  the  current  of  these  public  events,  the 
private  history  of  the  two  brothers  entirely  passes 
out  of  sight  till  the  signature  of  the  Treaty  of  Paris, 
which  enabled  them,  with  the  rest  of  their  comrades 
in  arms,  to  return  home. 


THE   SOWING  OF  THE   SEED.  181 

The  following  letters  and  papers,  carefully  selected 
from  the  great  mass  of  private  documents  confided  to 
my  care  by  Count  K ,  are  sufficient  to  give  con 
sistency  and  continuity  to  the  development  of  his  ex 
traordinary  and  melancholy  biography. 


182  THE   PATIENT. 


CHAPTER  III. 
JULIET. 

JULIET  TO  THERESA. 

L ,  14th  June,  1814. 

"An!  what  a  day,  dear  Theresa!  Edmond  and 
Felix  are  both  come  home.  My  dear,  good,  darling 
brothers !  Both  of  them  well,  both  of  them  the  same 

as  in  the  pleasant  old  times,  and  yet Well, 

let  me  tell  you  how  it  has  all  happened. 

"I  was  sitting  in  the  window  that  overlooks  the 
park.  Oar  dear  mother  was  sitting  a  little  way  off 
at  her  work-table.  You  remember  (do  you  not  ?)  this 
sunny  little  study  of  ours,  where  you  used  to  share 
with  me  my  solitude,  in  the  days  when  Edmond  was 
first  away  on  his  journey  in  Egypt.  And  have  you 
forgotten  that  long  summer,  when  you  and  I  managed 
to  coax  three  or  four  of  the  tallest  vine-boughs  up  the 
espaliers  on  the  wall,  and  in  through  the  casement,  so 
as  to  make  for  us  two  girls  to  be  queens  of,  sole  and 
undisputed,  a  little  green  bower  in  the  room  itself. 
The  bower  has  grown  since  then,  Theresa.  And  here, 
where  I  sit  behind  the  leaves  and  twigs,  my  small 
green  palace  walls  are  as  closely  and  compactly  framed 
and  clothed  as  the  nest  of  the  noisy  swallow  up  yon 
der  in  the  eaves  outside.  How  sure  I  felt  this  spring 
that  the  swallow's  news  was  good ! 

"We  had  just  received  letters  from   Strasbourg 


THE   SOWING  OF  THE  SEED.  183 

which  made  us  expect  their  return,  but  not  so  soon, 
for  they  had  not  then  received  their  conge. 

"Well,  as  I  am  sitting  here,  all  at  once  I  hear  a 
noise  in  the  espaliers  under  the  window.  Crack, 
crack !  crash,  crash !  and  before  I  can  turn  my  head 
to  see  what  is  the  matter,  lo  and  behold!  a  saucy 
young  gentleman  in  uniform  climbs  over  the  window, 
jumps  into  the  room,  whisks  me  out  of  my  chair, 
catches  me  up  in  his  right  arm  as  if  I  were  a  feather, 
pulls  me,  or  rather  carries  me,  in  this  way  across  the 
room,  and,  seizing  mother  after  the  same  unceremoni 
ous  fashion  with  his  other  arm,  squeezes  and  kisses 
us  both  out  of  breath ;  while  the  dear  old  lady,  really, 
I  think,  speechless  from  pure  joy,  can  only  strain  his 
beaming,  sunburnt  face  to  her  bosom,  and  stroke  her 
hand  over  his  tossed  and  tumbled  curls  without  utter 
ing  a  word. 

"  We  had  hardly  recovered  from  our  first  happy  be 
wilderment  at  the  unexpected  appearance  and  frantic 
impetuosity  of  Felix  (for  of  course  it  was  he  ;  who  but 
Felix  would  have  ever  dreamed  of  jumping  in  at  the 
window  ?)  when  Edmond  also  came  in  through  the 
door,  holding  father  by  the  hand.  Oh,  then,  Theresa, 
'twas  nothing  but  kissing  and  clasping  all  round,  hands 
in  hands  and  hearts  to  hearts  1  Felix  laughed  and 
cried  in  one  and  the  same  breath,  and  jumped  about 
like  mad.  When  at  last  he  had  kissed  and  hugged 
us  all  round  for  at  least  the  fiftieth  time,  then  he  be 
gan  to  seize  his  brother  by  the  head,  and  dance  round 
him,  shouting  and  singing,  and  hugging  him  too,  as 
if  they  also  now  met  for  the  first  time  after  a  year's 
absence.  Bref.  he  finally  played  so  many  pranks  with 


184  THE   PATIENT. 

us  all,  that  we  soon  fairly  laughed  off  all  the  trouble 
and  trepidation  of  those  first  breathless  moments  of 
sudden  joy. 

#         -x-         *         x         *:-         *          -x-          * 

"At  last  the  Kobold  is  tamed.  He  is  fast  asleep 
now  in  his  mother's  chair,  where  all  at  once  his  eye 
lids  dropped.  I  think  the  French  cannon  would  not 
wake  him  just  now ;  and  I  hope  he  will  leave  us  all 
in  repose  for  a  while. 

"  Edmond  staid  with  us  longer.  He  who  appeared 
so  calm  and  self-possessed  on  his  arrival,  has,  how 
ever,  been  deeply  agitated,  I  now  suspect,  by  the  meet 
ing.  We  were  obliged  to  force  him  to  take  a  little 
rest;  for  the  poor  boys  have  been  nine  days  on  the 
road,  Theresa,  without  stopping  night  or  day.  And 
they  came  home  on  a  wretched  peasant's  cart,  for  the 
post  communications  are  not  yet  quite  re-established. 
My  dear,  dear  brother !  while  I  write  to  you,  Theresa, 
and  while  Felix  is  snoring  loud  enough  to  break  the 
drum  of  my  ears,  I  can  see  Edmond  wandering  about 
all  alone  in  the  park  instead  of  taking  any  rest.  I 
hoped  he  was  in  bed  long  ago  and  asleep  by  this  time. 

"  There  he  is  now  (I  can  see  him  through  the  win 
dow),  standing  near  my  little  garden.  I  think  I  must 
have  told  you  how  I  planted  there  a  large  E  and  a 
large  F  in  box.  The  F  looks  fresher  and  thicker,  and 
greener  and  stronger  than  the  E.  It  has  grown  so. 
I  am  sorry.  But  it  is  from  no  want  of  care  or  coax 
ing  on  my  part.  I  could  not  help  it.  There  is  one 
part  of  the  earth  where  the  box  has  withered  down  as 
often  as  I  planted  it.  What  a  strange  nature  is  Ed- 
mond's !  So  dreamy  and  quiet ;  yet  he  notices  every 


THE   SOWING  OF  THE   SEED.  185 

thing.  Nothing  escapes  his  eye.  So  it  always  was 
with  him.  And  he  often  attaches  to  the  merest  trifles 
a  greater  value  than  to  things  which  are  really  im 
portant.  I  have  many  times  observed  that.  "Would 
you  think  it,  Theresa  ?  Soon  after  he  first  came  into 
the  room,  he  had  already  noticed,  from  my  window, 
the  withered  side  of  the  box  E  in  my  garden.  I  saw 
him  looking  at  it.  As  for  Felix,  that  saucy,  misbe 
haved  urchin  has  never  even  vouchsafed  me  a  Thank- 
you  for  all  my  care  and  pains.  It  is  really  too  bad. 
He  treats  me,  I  declare,  as  if  I  were  one  of  his  barrack 
companions.  No  matter,  though ;  I  shall  pay  him  out 
for  it  one  of  these  days.  I  am  determined  to  love  Ed- 
mond  a  great  deal  better  than  him.  But  the  worst 
of  it  is,  he  is  quite  capable  of  never  even  noticing  that. 
And  then,  too,  I  am  not  quite  sure  I  could  do  it,  even 
if  I  tried.  My  two  dear  brothers,  I  love  them  both 
with  all  my  heart !  There  can  be  no  most  nor  least 
in  such  love.  Is  not  one  as  dear  to  me  as  the  other  ? 
And  only  ....  yes,  perhaps — but,  God  be  thanked ! 
I  have  them  both  ....  if  one  of  my  darlings  had 
never  returned,  I  think  it  is  the  dead  that  I  should 
have  loved  the  best." 


186  THE   PATIENT. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
EDMOND. 

EXTRACT  FROM  THE  JOURNAL  OF  COUNT  EDMOND. 

"  How  few  among  us  ever  really  grapple  and  close 
with  the  great  questions  of  Human  Life ! 

"  Here,  already  passed  beyond  the  boundary-line  of 
man's  maturity,  I  find  myself  stumbling  at  the  sim 
plest  of  these  enigmas.  Here  I  halt  irresolute,  hesi 
tating,  timid.  And  I,  the  man  whose  brain  is  bur 
dened  with  the  too,  too  heavy  weight  of  thought,  I 
am  ready  to  ask  my  road  of  a  child." 


THE  SOWING  OF  THE  SEED.  187 


CHAPTER  Y. 

FELIX,  EDMOND,  AND  JULIET. 

JULIET  TO  THERESA. 

"L ,  20th  June,  1814. 

"  THE  first  emotions  are  over.  We  have  got  to  be 
accustomed  to  each  other  again,  and  have  grown  into 
the  habit  of  each  other's  lives. 

"  It  is  better  so,  for  it  is  calmer.  Your  letter  spoke 
of  feelings  somewhat  akin  to  these  when  you  told  me 
about  your  child  and  your  husband,  and  of  your  love 
for  these  two,  and  of  the  difference  in  that  love.  How 
strange  it  would  be  did  any  one  become  jealous  of  his 
own  flesh  and  blood.  Is  jealousy  possible  between 
father  and  child — brother  and  brother?  But  what 
am  I  talking  of?  I  meant  to  tell  you  something  of 
our  lives ;  how  we  are  all  living  together  here ;  how 
quietly ;  and  how  happily  the  days  go  by. 

"  Well,  then,  after  breakfast  father  usually  goes  out 
with  Edmond,  to  look  over  the  mills,  the  farm,  the 
cattle,  and  see  how  the  crops,  are  coming  on.  Or 
sometimes  they  both  take  their  horses  and  ride  about 
the  forest,  to-  inspect  the  timber,  and  that  Edmond 
may  see  how  well  and  carefully  all  his  suggestions 
and  plans  have  been  attended  to  during  his  absence. 

"It  is  really  amusing  to  see  how  the  dear  old  gen 
tleman  behaves  on  these  occasions.  He  is  as  eager 
and  as  timid  as  a  schoolboy ;  doubting  if  he  have  done 


188  THE   PATIENT. 

well,  and  impatient  for  Edmond's  approval.  Then, 
when  they  both  come  home,  I  can  always  see  at  a 
glance,  by  the  way  he  rubs  his  hands  and  chuckles  to 
himself,  if  all  has  gone  smooth  and  well.  As  for  Fe 
lix,  we  hardly  ever  see  any  thing  of  him  before  late 
in  the  evening.  He  has  registered  a  vow  never  to  re 
turn  home  without  a  stag,  or  some  enormous  trophy 
of  the  chase ;  and  he  generally  sets  out  at  daybreak, 
before  the  house  is  out  of  bed.  Father  is  by  no  means 
too  well  pleased  with  these  extensive  devastations  of 
Felix  just  at  this  season.  The  other  day  Felix  kept 
his  vow  by  not  coming  home  all  night.  Such  a  fright 
as  we  were  in !  He  reappeared,  however,  the  next 
morning.  And  in  what  sort  of  equipage  do  you  sup 
pose  ?  Mounted  on  the  top  of  a  wooden  cliarette,  and 
sound  asleep  between  a  wild  boar  and  a  stag — a  mag 
nificent  ten-horner !  We  all  burst  out  laughing  when 
he  made  his  triumphal  entry  in  this  way  up  the  shrub 
bery,  where  we  were  just  then  taking  our  morning 
walk.  It  was  ludicrous  to  see  the  puzzled  face  of 
him,  and  the  astonished  way  he  rubbed  his  eyes,  and 
stretched  and  shook  himself  like  a  great  dog,  before 
he  seemed  to  know  where  he  was.  But,  before  moth 
er  could  scold  him  for  the  anxiety  he  had  caused  us 
all,  he  jumped  down  from  the  cart,  and  into  her  arms, 
and  contrived  to  pour  into  our  ears,  without  stopping 
to  take  breath,  such  a  long  story  of  wonderful  ad  ven 
tures,,  that  no  one  could  put  in  a  word.  "What  saved 
him,  I  think,  was  that  it  so  happened  we  really  were 
in  want  of  game,  for  we  are  expecting  a  house  full  of 
visitors  next  week.  Well,  but  you  must  not  fancy, 
Theresa,  from  all  this,  that  Felix  is  rude,  or  selfish,  or 


THE   SOWING  OF   THE   SEED.  189 

that  he  has  no  taste  for  any  thing  but  dogs  and  horses, 
and  shooting  and  hunting.  If  Edmond  only  says  one 
word  to  him,  'tis  enough.  He  quietly  lays  his  gun  by 
in  the  corner,  sits  down  as  sober  as  a  judge,  and  in  an 
instant  he  is  quite  a  different  creature ;  sociable,  gen 
tle,  and  so  sweet-tempered  and  sunny  that  it  is  really 
impossible  to  be  angry  with  him  for  any  of  his  nu 
merous  misdeeds.  Edmond  is  every  thing  for  him. 
There  is  nothing  like  it.  He  looks  up  to  Edmond 
as  to  a  second  father.  And  indeed  he  may  well  do 
so,  for  he  owes  him  much.  Do  you  know,  Theresa, 
that  during  the  campaign  Edmond,  though  he  never 
studied  for  the  army,  at  once  took  the  lead  of  his 
brother  in  all  the  details  of  military  science  and  prac 
tice?  All  through  the  war  he  was  the  guide  and 
teacher,  as  well  as  helpmate,  of. Felix;  and  here  he 
continues  to  be  the  same  in  all  things.  What  a  sur 
passing  spirit  it  is! 

"Edmond  is  the  most  accomplished  and  complete 
man  I  ever  met  with.  What  an  intellect,  and  what  a 
soul !  Such  extraordinary  powers  of  application,  such 
self-possession  and  solidity  of  character !  Yet  he  does 
not  seem  happy.  And  this  makes  me  sad.  I  think 
Felix  is  the  only  perfectly  happy  creature.  He  is 
happy  completely.  The  other,  with  all  his  gifts,  all 
his  lavish  wealth  of  nature,  has  yet  need  of  more. 
Felix  is  rich  with  little  or  nothing.  Edmond  hardly 
ever  speaks  to  me  now  ;  and  I  should  almost  begin  to 
think  him  indifferent  to  me  if  a  thousand  little  name 
less  silent  kindnesses,  and  acts  of  thoughtful  care,  did 
not  prove  to  me  the  contrary.  And  all  that  he  does 
for  me  is  done  so  quietly.  Felix  does  nothing  at  all 


190  THE   PATIENT. 

for  me.  On  the  other  hand,  he  is  always  wanting  me 
to  do  something  for  him.  Yesterday  he  must  needs 
set  me  down  all  the  morning  to  mending  his  great 
leathern  shot-belt,  which  I  did,  indeed,  so  well  that  I 
managed,  before  I  was  through  with  that  rough,  un 
wonted  work,  to  run  the  scissors  into  my  finger,  and 
hurt  myself  horribly.  Edmond,  before  Felix  even  no 
ticed  it,  was  at  my  side.  He  turned  quite  pale  when 
he  saw  the  blood  on  my  hand ;  and,  throwing  a  glance 
of  disapprobation  on  his  brother,  he  left  the  room  to 
look  for  some  English  sticking-plaster. 

"  But  Felix,  when  he  at  last  saw  what  was  the  mat 
ter,  jumps  up,  and  crying,  "  Nonsense !  nonsense !" 
seizes  hold  of  my  finger,  thrusts  it  between  his  lips, 
and  sucks  out  the  blood  so  hard  that  he  makes  me 
cry.  Then,  before  I  can  stop  him,  he  catches  up  the 
scissors  (the  instruments  of  my  mishap),  and  cuts  a 
great  piece  out  of  my  cambric  pocket-handkerchief,  as 
if  it  were  merely  a  rag  of  hospital  lint.  Therewith  he 
bound  up  the  wound  tightly,  and  stopped  the  bleed 
ing  in  a  minute.  I  confess  that  I  felt  a  pain  at  the 
heart  when,  a  minute  afterward,  poor  dear  Edmond 
came  back  with  the  sticking-plaster,  and  found  that 
there  was  nothing  left  him  to  do  for  me.  Felix,  in 
his  rough  way,  had  done  every  thing. 

"  'Tis  a  trifle,  this.  But — well,  I  hardly  know  why, 
Theresa,  and  yet  I  have  noticed  that  on  these  occa 
sions  mother  shakes  her  head  and  steals  a  furtive,  un 
quiet  look  at  Edmond,  as  he  sits  beside  us,  so  quiet,  so 
self-involved."  ***** 


THE  SOWING  OF  THE  SEED.  191 

Like  this,  there  are  many  other  letters  from  Juliet 
interspersed  among  the  leaves  of  Edmond's  journal. 
The  dates  run  on  to  the  middle  of  August.  I  do  not 
give  them  all.  The  selection  which  I  make  is  enough 
to  throw  sufficient  light  on  the  interior  of  these  three 
hearts,  happily  yet  unconscious  of  the  precipice  to 
which  an  unseen  hand  was  slowly  leading  them  down. 


192  THE   PATIENT. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

STRAWS  UPON  THE  STREAM. 

EXTRACTS  FROM  THE  JOURNAL  OF  COUNT  EDMOND  R . 

"20th  July,  1814. 

"  THE  Idea  which  man  calls  GOD  only  exists  with 
in  the  consciousness  of  man  himself.  Though  we 
should  take  the  wings  of  the  morning  and  fly  to  the 
uttermost  parts  of  the  earth,  yet  we  can  find  nothing 
there  which  we  have  not  carried  with  us.  Whether 
we  scale  the  heights  or  sound  the  depths,  mount  up 
into  Heaven  or  go  down  into  Hell,  we  are  equally  un 
able  to  travel  out  of  our  own  thought,  or  attain  to  any 
point  of  space  beyond  the  reach  of  it.  Nay,  Space  it 
self  and  Time  are  not  things,  nor  even  the  qualities 
of  things.  They  are  only  our  manner  of  thinking  of 
things ;  the  modes  and  conditions  of  our  conscious 
ness.  We  are  not  the  masterpieces  of  a  Supreme  Be 
ing  who  has  formed  us  in  his  own  image,  but  our  idea 
of  such  a  Being  we  have  formed  in  the  image  of  our 
selves.  We  do^  not  resemble  him ;  he  resembles  us. 
********* 
The  action  of  all  natural  forces  is  spontaneous,  self- 
impelled,  independent,  and  obedient  only  to  the  laws 
of  creation.  Attraction  and  repulsion,  centripetal  and 
centrifugal  force:  these  are  the  determining  poles  of 
movement.  They  are  the  same  under  every  denomi 
nation.  The  conditions  of  union  and  disunion  are  re- 


THE   SOWING   OF  THE   SEED.  193 

moved  from  our  control  within  the  centres  of  the  in 
evitable  forces  that  join  and  part.  No  extraneous 
power  prohibits  such  and  such  a  union.  No  ex 
traneous  power  necessitates  such  and  such  another. 
These  two  principles  are  their  own  employers.  The 
cause  of  their  activity  is  in  themselves.  They  create 
and  destroy  at  their  will  and  pleasure.  In  the  nature 
of  man  the  action  of  them  is  spiritual,  as  in  the  nature 
of  the  inorganic  world  it  is  material.  This  is  the  only 
difference  I  can  discover. 

"  Hence  this  lacerating  conflict  in  our  own  bosoms. 
We  are  the  battle-fields,  only,  if  forces  we  do  not 
command.  Armies  whose  leaders  are  to  us  unknown ; 
powers  we  can  neither  summon  nor  dismiss,  are 
camped  upon  the  brain  and  tented  in  the  veins  of 
men.  The  war  is  theirs,  not  ours.  We  are  the  spec 
tators  of  ourselves,  not  the  lords.  We  are  conscious 
where  the  conflict  is  waged.  It  shakes  us  at  the  most 
solitary  outposts  of  thought,  we  are  convulsed  by  it  in 
the  most  central  abysses  of  sensation,  but  nothing  of 
it  is  our  own  save  the  ravage  and  the  pang. 

And  man  fancies  that  he  is  something  great  because 
something  great  is  taking  place  within  him. 

So  the  sun-dial  measured  out  the  course  of  the  world 
from  hour  to  hour,  and  it  imagined  itself  to  be  Time, 
and  it  dreamed  that  it  was  destined  to  become  the 
compeer  of  Eternity.  But  a  little  cloud  was  blown 
across  the  sun,  and  the  dial  awoke  from  its  dream  of 
Time  and  Eternity,  and  relapsed  into — Nothingness. 

"  As  little  as  the  dial  could  command  the  sun,  can 
man  command  the  mind  in  nature,  of  which  he  is  the 
index ;  if  he  dares  to  think  himself  more — the  dupe. 

I 


194  THE   PATIENT. 

To  no  force  within  ourselves  or  others  have  we  power 
to  say,  *  Be  thou  thus,  and  not  otherwise ;  pass  thou 
here,  and  not  elsewhere.'  In  no  one  soul  can  the  fiery 
effort  of  its  intensest  forces  avail  to  strike  from  the 
soul  of  another  the  spark  that  lights,  and  warms,  and 

kindles— love.  *  *  *  *  *  *  * 
».*•»...*.•*.;«  •::- 

"  Machine  or  chaos  ?     Behold  the  conditions   of 
our  being.    Is  the  choice  between  them  always  ours  ?" 


JULIET  TO  THERESA. 

"  21st  July,  1814. 

*  "  Because  in  my  letters  I  speak  so 
much  of  them,  you  think  it  necessary  to  warn  me,  my 
Theresa?  Dear,  you  misjudge.  Both  of  them  to 
gether  are  not  dangerous  to  my  repose.  Either  of 
them,  without  the  other,  might  be  so.  Poised  between 
these  two  hearts,  the  balance  of  my  own  is  undis 
turbed.  I  am  at  peace  because  I  am  in  my  place. 
My  life  is  the  necessary  complement  of  theirs.  We 
three  are  one.  Two  of  us,  without  the  other,  would 
be  but  the  moiety  of  a  maimed  individuality.  Quite 
alone,  I  think  no  one  of  us  three  could  exist.  Felix 
and  I  are  creatures  to  whom  happiness  is  an  instinct 
of  nature  rather  than  a  consequence  of  conduct.  We 
act  more  from  tendency  than  intention.  Edmond  is 
both  our  measure  and  our  goal.  Toward  him  we 
move,  and  by  him  our  movement  is  controlled. 

"He  perhaps,  and  he  only  of  us  three,  could  exist 
alone ;  for  his  is  the  self-sufficing  spirit,  and  his  char- 


THE   SOWING   OF   THE   SEED.  195 

acter  is  the  completest  and  most  finished  that  I  have 
ever  contemplated.  Justice,  Judgment,  Sagacity,  No 
bility,  Power  to  restrain  and  refrain,  Harmony,  Order, 
Duty— all  these  are  but  so  many  parts  of  his  consum 
mate  character.  And  how  difficult  to  poor  Felix  is 
the  exercise  of  these  two  last  qualities ! 

"When  the  path  of  his  inclination  is  foreclosed  by 
a  prohibition  imposed  by  a  duty,  nine  times  out  of 
ten  he  is  sure  to  behave  like  a  hero ;  but,  alas !  when 
the  woful  tenth  time  comes,  some  rash  impulse  will 
often  run  joyously  off  with  his  judgment,  and  all  his 
previous  pains  come  to  nothing.  Then  he  is  in  such 
honest  despair;  he  looks  so  whimsically  woful;  he 
puts  on  such  a  pleading  face  for  pardon,  sits  so  meek 
ly  in  his  sackcloth  and  ashes,  and  is  so  humble  and 
so  sad,  that  it  is  not  in  human  nature  to  be  angry 
with  him."  *  *.•,*::*;*  *  *  * 


EXTRACT  FROM  THE  JOURNAL  OP  COUNT  EDMOND  R . 

*  "Of  all  mysteries,  it  is  the  most  mys 
terious  ;  of  all  enigmas,  the  least  explicable.  Before 
the  vehement  lawlessness  of  this,  all  forethought  fails ; 
all  judgment  is  disjointed  ;  all  calculation  recoils  or  is 
crushed.  In  the  presence  of  it,  all  other  presences 
wax  pale  and  impalpable ;  by  the  power  of  it,  all 
other  powers  are  paralyzed.  Yet  it  is  itself  impalpa 
ble  to  possession,  and  powerless  to  possess.  Gratitude, 
Friendship,  Desire — all  these  we  may  trace  to  their 
sources,  and  set  in  motion  by  our  will ;  but  the  levers 
of  Love,  impenetrable,  intangible,  are  placed  beyond 


196  THE   PATIENT. 

the  sight  of  the  eye  that  is  strained,  and  the  touch  of 
the  hand  that  is  stretched  to  discover  them.  And 
yet  to  be  master  of  these  is  all  that  can  make  life 
worth  having.  * 

*  So  be  it  then,  at  last!  Here,  where  to  rea 
son  is  to  be  unreasonable,  where  sense  is  nonsense, 
and  all  is  fatality  or  frenzy,  what  farther  can  I  fear? 
or  why  should  I  scruple  to  ally  Passion  to  Supersti 
tion,  weakness  to  weakness? 

"  On  this  lost  ring  will  I  stake  all  that  my  life  has 
left  to  win  or  lose.  If  I  find  it — and  find  it  I  must — 
then  hear  me  for  once  and  forever,  you  sightless  min 
isters  to  man !  and  be  this  ring  the  first  link  in  the 
indissoluble  chain  wherewith  to  bind  her — ay,  though 
it  be  forged  on  the  anvils  of  Hell !  I  can  no  more, 

nor  otherwise." 

-x-          x          -::-          -::•          -::•          -x-          -::• 


THE  SOWING  OF  THE  SEED.  197 


CHAPTEE  VII. 
DRIFTING. 

JULIET  TO  THERESA. 

Extracts. 

"FARE  thee  hence,  and  fare  thee  well,  thou  Un 
known  Bridegroom !  Superstition,  my 
Theresa,  comes  in  aid  of  thine  admonitions.  My  fate 
is  fixed.  A  maid  I  remain,  for  I  have  lost  my  mar 
riage  ring. 

"  We  were  playing  at  ball  there.  And,  the  better 
to  hold  my  racket,  I  drew  the  ring  from  my  finger, 
and  put  it  into  my  handkerchief,  which  I  had  left  on 
the  pedestal  of  the  great  sphinx  that  Edmond  has  had 
placed  in  the  bowling-alley.  Afterward  we  made  up 
a  boating  party  on  the  water,  and  walked  home  by 
moonlight  through  the  woods.  I  thought  no  more 
about  my  ring.  But  later  in  the  evening,  when  we 
were  all  together  in  the  drawing-room,  I  noticed  that 
the  ring  was  not  on  my  finger,  and  immediately  ran 
up  stairs  to  my  bedroom  to  fetch  the  handkerchief  in 
which  I  remembered  having  tied  it  up.  I  found  the 
handkerchief  where  I  had  left  it  on  the  toilet-table, 
and  shook  it  out  very  carefully.  A  little  night-moth 
fluttered,  frightened,  out  of  the  folds  of  it,  and  burnt 
his  pretty  velvet  wings  in  the  flame  of  my  candle, 
into  which  he  foolishly  flung  himself.  I  think  it  may 
have  been  one  of  those  little  sphinx-moths  of  which, 


198  THE   PATIENT. 

as  you  know,  there  are  in  summer-time  so  many,  and 
such  pretty  ones,  about  here.  But  I  am  not  the  less 
convinced  that  the  moth  was  my  betrothed.  The 
magic  ring  must  have  secretly  changed  itself  into  that 
delicate,  rash  lover;  for  it  was  no  longer  in  my  hand 
kerchief,  and  has  not  since  been  found. 

"  I  have  made  up  this  fairy  tale  to  fit  my  own  fancy 
as  you  see,  and  choose  rather  to  believe  myself  the 
widow  of  a  butterfly  than  to  accept  any  of  the  more 
prosaic  conjectures  of  all  the  others  here,  who  still  in 
sist  in  hunting  for  the  lost  ring  in  every  nook  and 
corner  tripped  over,  my  Theresa,  by  the  footstep  of 
thy  thoughtless  friend.  Thoughtless?  yes.  I  have 
been  so.  And  now  I  reproach  myself  severely,  not 
for  having  lost  the  ring,  but  for  having  joked  too  light 
ly  and  too  loudly  about  the  loss  of  it. 

"  The  fact  is,  I  was  vexed  to  see  all  the  world 
sprawling  about  on  the  ground  to  look  for  my  miss 
ing  treasure.  So  I  cried  out,  '  Oh  pray  don't  make 
such  a  fuss  about  it.  'Tis  quite  useless.  Don't  you 
know  that  the  ring  is  an  enchanted  one,  and  that  it  is 
destined  to  chain  me  indissolubly  to  him  from  whose 
hand  I  shall  one  day  receive  it  ?  Now  it  has  spirited 
itself  away,  and  'tis  no  use  looking  for  it ;  it  will  only 
reveal  itself  to  him  whom  I  myself  am  fated  to  belong 
to  for  time  and  eternity.  All  this  is  written  in  the 
stars.' 

"And  these  silly  words  were  as  indelicate  as  they 
were  thoughtless,  Theresa ;  for  I  noticed  at  once  that 
Edmond  looked  hurt  and  pained  to  think  I  could  so 
lightly  console  myself  for  the  loss  of  a  gift  which  he 
had  given  me  with  words,  no  doubt,  inspired  by  a  se- 


THE   SOWING   OF   THE   SEED.  199 

rious  and  brotherly  concern  for  all  that  might  affect 
my  future.  Thanks  be  to  my  good  stars,  however,  the 
fatal  ring  has  vanished.  I  persist  in  believing  that 
the  fairies  have  changed  it  into  my  little  winged 
bridegroom ;  and  that  ill-fated  one  has  been  his  own 
executioner,  and  roasted  himself  alive  in  the  candle 
of  his  now  disconsolate  bride." 


EXTRACT  FROM  THE  JOURNAL  OF  COUNT.  EDMOND  E . 

"Lost!  irretrievably,  irrevocably  lost! 
-*        *        *        # 

"  And  all  has  been  in  vain ! 

Man,  impuissant  in  the  plenitude  of  his  powers,  can 
not,  then,  with  the  utmost  faculties  of  his  soul — with 
keenest  effort  of  his  will — succeed  in  commanding  the 
smallest  of  those  blind  and  miserable  chances  that 
aimlessly  sport  with  his  destiny  ?  We  are  mocked ! 
We  are  mocked ! 

"In  that  cold  moment  of  time  when  the  rising  sun 
first  touched  with  his  pale  beam  me  and  the  labor  of 
my  long,  dark  hours,  I  sickened  at  the  sight  and  the 
smell  of  the  fresh  black  earth  upturned  at  my  feet,  and 
I  shuddered  at  the  imagination  of  my  own  image ;  for 
I  seemed  to  be  the  spectre  of  myself  hovering  over  the 
grave  of  my  hope. 

"  Yes !  I  am  henceforth  the  living 
grave  of  a  hope  that  is  dead  forever.  Gods !  gods ! 
gods !  do  you  look  on  at  all  this  ?  And  must  we, 
too,  live  on  thus,  knowing  that  you  know  it  and  are 
not  sad  ?  And  not  any  where,  any  where,  any  help 


200  THE  PATIENT. 

— neither  in  Heaven  nor  in  Hell !     We  are  mocked ! 
*•        •*        # 

"Yesterday,  to-day,  this  morning,  an  hour  ago — an 
age  ago — Hope  lived.  But  when  he — and  Ae  ever, 
and  still  ever  he  ! — he  that  had  not  moved  a  hand,  nor 
stirred  a  foot — oh  heaven  and  earth !  .  .  .  .  when  the 
ring  which  it  had  robbed  from  mine,  his  Evil  Genius 
and  my  own  dropped  into  his  loose,  idle  hand,  then 
the  deathblow  flashed  in  my  eyes  and  fell.  *  *  * 
Dead !  Hope  is  dead. 

"No  more  praying.  What  have  we  prayed  for? 
Let  the  angels  go  back  to  their  Heaven  empty-handed 
as  they  leave  us  to  our  earth. 

"  Night  every  where,  and  forever. 

"  Night  on  my  eyes,  night  in  my  soul.  And  in  this 
darkness  there  is  no  light  but  the  lurid  sparkle  of 
that  hateful  amethyst.  It  comes  and 

goes,  and  passes  and  returns,  like  a  marsh  fire  on  the 
waste.  *         *         And  They  follow  it- 

troops  of  them  in  the  wicked  glare.  And  I  see  the 
grinning  of  the  demon  faces  on  the  dark,  and  I  feel 
the  groping  and  the  clutching  of  the  demon  hands 
about  the  hollows  of  my  heart. 
My  heart  ?  Is  this  a  heart,  this  chaos  ?  *  *  * 
Felix!  Felix!  thou — and  why  thou? — of  all  others 
on  this  mad  and  miserable  earth?  Thou  only?  and 
still  ever  Thou  /" 


THE   SOWING  OF  THE  SEED.  201 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

AND  SOME  AEE  DKIFTED  TOGETHER,  AND  SOME  AKE 
DRIFTED  ASUNDER. 

JULIET  TO  THERESA. 

"My  BEST  THERESA! — How  shall  I  tell  thee,  my 
friend,  my  sister — what  words,  even  if  I  could  stop  to 
find  them,  might  avail  to  tell  thee  all  that  has  hap 
pened —  all  that  is?  How  surpassing  must  be  my 
happiness !  for  if  the  feeling  of  it  were  less  rare,  there 
must  have  been  a  language  and  a  name  for  it,  and  I 
can  find  none. 

"Yet  my  hand  trembles  not;  my  heart  does  not 
beat  faster  than  before.  This  joy  is  calm,  because  it 
is  complete.  There  is  a  light  upon  my  soul,  and  a 
stillness  in  my  thoughts ;  and  I  know,  by  the  stillness 
and  the  light  within,  that  the  Spirit  of  Joy  is  sleeping 
safe.  What  birth-throes  must  bring  to  the  pure  and 
perfect  crystal  the  slowly-formed  and  darkly-working 
splendors  of  the  diamond.  And  what  painful  agita 
tions,  in  these  last  few  days  even,  have  preceded  the 
perfect  concentration  of  my  heart's  complete  content ! 

"  Yes,  I  believe  in  the  magic  power  of  the  ring. 
For  surely  now — but  thou  thyself  shalt  judge,  my 
Theresa,  if  this  old  amulet  of  the  Pagan  East  have  not 
shed  benignant  influence  on  one  who  is  now,  and 
henceforth,  the  very  happiest  and  most  joyful  child 
of  all  the  Christian  West.  Let  me  tell  thee  all. 

12 


202  THE  PATIENT. 

"Early  in  the  morning  of  the  day  after  that  in 
which  I  lost  my  ring — and  my  last  letter  must  have 
then  been  already  on  its  way  to  you — we  were  awaked 
by  the  blowing  of  horns  and  the  baying  of  hounds  in 
the  great  court  of  the  quadrangle.  Our  neighbors, 
who  were  resolved  to  run  a  stag  that  morning,  had 
taken  us  quite  by  surprise.  However,  mother  was  up 
at  once,  and  we  both  dressed  ourselves  in  haste  to  re 
ceive  them.  Felix  and  Edmond  had  been  beforehand 
with  us.  When  we  got  down  stairs,  we  found  the 
whole  party  already  at  breakfast  in  the  armor-room, 
where  a  fire  had  been  lighted  for  them ;  for  the  morn 
ing  was  chilly,  and  the  sun  only  just  up. 

"  Felix  was  entirely  absorbed  in  arranging  the  de 
tails  of  the  chase.  His  picker  was  standing  near  him ; 
and  it  was  only  at  the  last  moment,  when  he  turned 
round  to  take  the  horn  and  the  hunting-knife  from 
the  picker,  that  he  noticed  me  standing  before  the 
hearth,  and  put  out  his  hand  to  bid  me  good-morning. 

"The  hunting  party  were  just  going  to  start,  and 
one  of  our  guests,  as  he  crossed  the  room,  suddenly 
exclaimed, ( Why,  look  at  this !  The  picture  has  taken 
life.'  And  at  the  same  time  he  pointed,  laughing,  to 
the  old  hunting-picture  that  hangs  over  the  great  fire 
place — you  remember  it  ? — in  the  armory. 

"  Every  body  looked  up.  And,  indeed,  we  were  all 
struck  by  the  similarity.  For  the  picture,  as  you 
know,  represents,  in  the  life-size,  a  sportsman,  and  a 
lady  from  whose  hand  he  is  receiving,  with  all  the 
gallantry  of  attitude  which  belonged  to  our  grand 
father's  grandfathers,  his  belt  and  bugle-horn.  Really 
Felix  looked  the  counterpart  of  the  painted  sportsman 


THE   SOWING  OF  THE   SEED.  203 

(minus,  I  need  not  say,  the  praiseworthy  gallantry  of 
that  exemplary  image  which  for  half  a  century  at  least 
had  been  waiting  on  bended  knee  for  the  lady's  fa 
vor)  ;  and  I,  with  a  slight  change  of  dress  I  think, 
might  have  very  well  passed  for  the  Chatelaine  her 
self. 

"'Come,'  cried  another,  'complete  the  picture,  Fe 
lix.  Down  on  one  knee  with  you,  and  let  the  lady  arm 
you.7 

"'Oh!'  said  I — for  on  the  pavement  just  at  my 
feet,  and  between  me  and  Felix,  the  draught  through 
the  open  door  had  strewn  a  long  train  of  ashes  from 
the  hearth — '  if  Felix  kneels  to  me,  he  will  have  to 
get  up  again  with  one  knee  white  and  the  other  black ; 
and  he  is  much  too  vain  for  that.' 

"  '  Of  course  I  am,'  says  Felix.  { But  I  think  one 
may  be  gallant  without  being  dirty.'  And,  taking 
out  his  handkerchief,  and  throwing  it  on  the  floor  at 
my  feet,  with  his  usual  vivacity  he  flung  himself  down, 
with  one  knee  on  this  impromptu  cushion. 

"But  in  the  same  instant,  as  though  something  had 
suddenly  hurt  him,  his  face  twitched ;  and,  staggering 
up,  in  the  effort  to  help  himself  on  to  his  feet,  he  caught 
hold  of  a  little  table  that  was  standing  near  him,  and 
both  he  and  the  table,  with  all  the  bottles,  glasses,  and 
dishes  on  it,  were  tumbled,  clattering,  on  to  the  stone 
floor.  Felix  cut  his  hand  badly  with  the  broken 
glass. 

"Edmond  lifted  him  up,  examined  the  wounds,  ex 
tracted  the  splinters,  and  bandaged  up  the  wounded 
hand  with  his  handkerchief.  But  it  was  swollen  and 
painful ;  and,  finding  his  right  hand  quite  disabled, 


204  THE   PATIENT. 

Felix,  to  his  great  discontent,  was  obliged  at  last  to 
yield  to  our  united  remonstrances,  stay  at  borne,  and 
let  Edmond  take  his  place  in  the  field.  *  *  *  * 

"  They  were  all  gone.  The  house  was  quiet.  More 
weakened  by  loss  of  blood,  and  the  pain  of  it,  than  he 
would  admit,  Felix  had  fallen  into  a  feverish,  uneasy 
sleep,  with  his  head  still  leaning  on  my  shoulder.  I 
could  not  move  without  waking  him.  So  I  sat  still. 
Mother  was  making  up  some  bandages  for  his  hand. 
We  talked  on  under  our  breath.  She  was  asking  me 
why  the  grass  and  mould  had  been  freshly  turned  up 
this  morning  all  round  the  pedestal  of  the  great  sphinx 
in  the  bowling-green.  I  knew  nothing  about  it,  but 
supposed  it  must  have  something  to  do  with  the  loss 
of  my  ring,  which  I  had  left  there. 

'"It  was  perhaps  the  midnight  work  of  my  be 
trothed,'  I  said,. laughingly. 

"  At  this  Felix  woke  up. 

"  ' Betrothed !  Who  is  betrothed?'  he  asked,  with 
the  sharp,  querulous  tone  of  a  feverish  person. 

111  Nobody,'  said  I. 

"Mother  left  the  room  just  then  to  look  for  an  un 
guent. 

"I  told  him  all  that  stupid  story  over  again,  with 
as  much  nonsense  as  I  could  contrive  to  put  into  it : 
How  Edmond  had  given  me  the  ring;  the  destina 
tion  of  it ;  and  how  that  destination  must  remain  un- 
attained. 

"  Felix  continued  looking  at  me  all  the  while  in  a 
strange,  unsettling  way,  with  great,  wide  eyes. 

"  '  Betrothed!'  "  he  went  on  murmuring  to  himself; 
1  betrothed !  And  is  it  possible  for  you,  then,  to 


THE  SOWING  OF  THE  SEED.  205 

betroth  yourself  one  of  these  days,  Juliet !  And  to 
whom — to  whom?' 

"  I  tried  to  laugh  at  him,  but  I  could  not.  He  kept 
looking  at  me  so  strangely,  as  if  he  then  saw  me  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life. 

"  '  And  if  you  were  betrothed,'  he  said,  after  a  pause, 
'why  then — then  you  would  cease  to  be  my  sister, 
Juliet?' 

"  'Always,  always  thy  sister,  my  dear  good  Felix!' 

"  I  put  my  hand  in  his  as  I  said  it.  But  he  did  not 
take  my  hand.  He  shook  his  head  mournfully. 

"  'No!'  he  muttered,  'all  would  be  over  then.' 

"  And  so  he  relapsed  into  his  re  very. 

"  He  looked  so  serious,  it  made  me,  too,  feel  serious. 
I  felt  sad,  too.  I  begged  him  never  to  talk  of  this 
again,  for  it  pained  me. 

"All  at  once  he  started  up,  and  stared  at  me  again 
with  a  curious,  puzzled  look. 

"  '  How  was  it,  then  ?'  he  cried.  'Ah!  I  remember! 
I  remember !  Didn't  you  say  yesterday,  Juliet,  that 
you  would  marry  the  man  who  should  find  this  mag 
ical  ring  of  yours?' 

'"Well,  yes,  I  did  say  that.' 

"  There  my  voice  broke  down.  I  could  not  go  on. 
I  meant  to  have  added  that  what  I  had  said  I  said 
without  meaning  any  thing  by  it. 

"He  became  quiet  and  thoughtful.  There  was 
something  almost  sombre  in  his  face. 

"The  silence  was  extremely  painful  to  me.  To 
change  the  current  of  our  thoughts,  I  asked  him  the 
cause  of  his  fall,  and  how  he  came  to  stumble  when 
he  was  already  on  his  knee. 


206  THE   PATIENT. 

"  'Ha!  yes;  by  the  way — '  he  said,  as  if  awaken 
ing  out  of  a  dream.  And  he  began  to  rub  his  knee. 

"  '  Something  here,'  he  said ;  'there  must  have  been 
a  stone  or  a  nail  on  the  floor.  I  felt  it  run  into  me, 
and  I  feel  the  smart  of  it  still.' 

"  'Your  wounded  hand,'  I  said  (glad  to  have  found 
a  new  subject  of  talk),  '  has  made  us  forget  the  occa 
sion  of  it.  Come  with  me,  and  let  us  look  together 
for  the  cause  of  your  fall.  When  we  have  found  the 
fatal  object,  whatever  it  be,  we  will  fling  it  to  the  bot 
tom  of  the  deepest  well  in  the  house.' 

"  I  took  his  left  hand  in  mine  as  I  said  this,  and  he 
let  me  lead  him  thus  into  the  armory. 

"  There  we  found  every  thing  just  as  we  had  left  it. 
The  servants,  busy  elsewhere,  had  not  yet  put  the 
room  in  order.  The  cinders  on  the  floor — the  hand 
kerchief  on  the  same  place  before  the  hearth.  And 
while  he  stooped  to  pick  it  up,  I  was  looking  about 
among  the  broken  glass  to  see  if  any  thing  had  rolled 
there  from  the  place  where  he  was  kneeling  when  he 
fell. 

" '  No  !'  cried  Felix,  feeling  with  his  finger  and 
thumb  the  folds  of  the  handkerchief.  '  It  is  here,  in 
the  handkerchief.  I  feel  something  hard  here.' 

"When  he  opened  it  he  drew  out  ....  the  ring! 
I  was  speechless. 

"  We  looked  at  each  other  in  silence.  God  only 
knows  what  was  passing  in  that  moment  between  our 
two  hearts."  *  *  *  * 

******* 

The  next  page  of  this  letter  is  missing.  Perhaps  it 
had  been  lost,  perhaps  it  had  been  torn  out.  I  can't 


THE  SOWING  OF  THE  SEED.  207 

say.     I  add  the  remainder  of  the  letter.     It  begins 
with  a  broken  sentence,  thus : 

*  "Arm  in  arm,  up  and  down, 
as  if  it  had  always  been  so.  Then,  at  last  we  began 
to  ask  ourselves  how  the  ring  could  have  got  into  the 
handkerchief.  We  had  returned  to  the  end  of  the 
alley,  and  were  standing  under  the  sphinx.  Felix  re 
membered,  now,  that  he,  too,  had  placed  his  handker 
chief  on  the  pedestal,  and  taken  it  with  him  when  he 
went  away.  So  I  must  have  mistaken  his  handker 
chief  for  mine,  absorbed  as  I  was  in  the  game.  And 
afterward,  taking  it  for  granted  that  the  ring  had  been 
lost  in  the  wood  or  the  alley,  it  never  occurred  to  me 
to  look  for  it  in  any  handkerchief  but  my  own,  where 
I  made  sure  that  I  had  placed  it.  The  sun  was  now 
sinking,  and  admonished  us  of  the  approaching  return 
of  the  hunters.  Father,  in  his  joy,  was  for  announc 
ing  our  engagement  at  supper;  but  mother  opposed 
this  idea  with  a  firmness  and  decision  of  which  I  could 
hardly  have  conceived  her  capable.  She  said  it  would 
be  most  unbecoming  to  render  definitive  and  irrevoca 
ble  the  step  we  had  taken  without  first  talking  it  over 
with  him  who  would  one  day  be  the  head  of  the  family. 

"  '  There  was  something  strange,'  I  remarked  to  Fe 
lix,  '  in  the  tone  with  which  mother  said  that.  And  I 
confess  that  the  thought  of  Edmond  somewhat  embar 
rasses  me.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  feel  shy  of 
meeting  him.' 

"As  I  said  this,  I  fancied  I  heard  a  low  moaning 
sound  in  the  underwood ;  for  we  were  just  crossing 
the  skirt  of  the  forest  on  our  way  home. 

"  '  Didst  thou  not  hear  it  too?'  I  said  to  Felix,  very 


208  THE   PATIENT. 

much  frightened.  And  he,  too,  fancied  that  he  heard 
something  moving  in  the  bushes.  But,  after  he  had 
searched  the  thicket  through  and  through,  and  could 
find  nothing,  he  began  to  laugh  at  me  for  my  folly, 
and  swore  that  nobody  would  be  better  pleased  with 
the  news  than  Edmond.  He  talked  on  with  such 
hearty,  joyous  conviction  about  this,  that  at  last  I  be 
gan  to  share  his  confident  view  of  the  matter. 

"  After  our  return  to  the  chateau,  we  separated  for 
a  short  while  to  prepare  for  the  reception  of  our 
guests.  I  had  hardly  finished  dressing  before  the  hunt 
came  back.  The  whole  house  was  in  a  bustle  ;  serv 
ants  running  from  room  to  room-along  the  corridors; 
doors  opening  and  shutting.  I  got  down  to  the  draw 
ing-room  as  quickly  as  I  could.  Felix  and  father 
came  in  at  different  doors,  very  much  agitated.  Ed 
mond  had  not  returned  with  the  others.  The  serv 
ants  were  questioned,  and  had  seen  nothing  of  him. 
At  last  some  of  the  hunting  party  came  down,  and 
told  us  that  Edmond,  just  after  the  death  of  the  stag, 
had  ridden  away  from  the  field  at  a  hand-gallop,  say 
ing  that  he  had  business  to  attend  to  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  and  they  would  find  him  at  the  chateau  when 
they  came  back.  Then  father  remembered  that  Ed 
mond,  when  he  set  out,  had  said  something  about  tak 
ing  that  occasion  to  inspect  the  land  survey,  who  have 
begun  their  triangulation  on  the  other  side  of  the 
wood,  and  are  to  send  in  their  plans  to-morrow.  Ed 
mond  is  so  thoughtful  about  every  thing.  This  re 
assured  us,  and  we  went  to  supper  with  good  hearts. 
While  our  sportsmen  were  clinking  their  glasses,  bow- 
ever,  and  devouring  their  venison  like  ogres,  I  could 


THE   SOWING  OF  THE  SEED.  209 

not  help  observing  how  anxiously  mother  was  glanc 
ing  every  moment  at  the  door  and  window.  She  said 
nothing ;  but  it  was  quite  dark  in  the  fields  outside ; 
and  I  saw  that  she  was  uneasy,  and  felt  more  uneasy 
myself  than  I  cared  to  say.  Father's  valet  came  in 
suddenly,  and  whispered  something  in  his  ear.  I  saw 
the  old  gentleman  turn  pale  and  start  in  his  chair. 
We  all  saw  it,  and  there  was  a  painful  silence.  Moth 
er  insisted  on  knowing  what  was  the  matter.  Father's 
only  answer  was  to  send  for  Edmond's  groom,  who 
came  in,  frightened  and  confused,  and  said  that  his 
master's  horse  had  just  come  back  to  the  stable  rider 
less,  his  bridle  broken,  and  his  flanks  covered  with 
foam.  .  I  was  just  in  time  to  catch  mother  in  my  arms. 
She  tottered  toward  me,  and  swooned  away. 

"  All  the  men  made  haste  to  saddle  their  horses, 
and  rode  away  as  fast  as  they  could  to  look  after  Ed- 
mond. 

"Felix  went  without  his  hat. 

"  In  a  few  moments  the  whole  house  was  silent  and 
empty.  Not  a  sound  to  be  heard  but  mother's  moan 
ing  from  time  to  time,  and  father's  unquiet  step,  pac 
ing  monotonously  up  and  down  the  long,  empty  sup 
per-room.  Each  horseman  had  taken  a  torch  with 
him,  for  the  night  was  unusually  dark.  There  was 
no  moon. 

"I  stood  helpless,  terrified,  in  the  embrasure  of  the 
great  window,  drearily  leaning  against  the  pane,  and 
pressing  my  hot  forehead  flat  on  the  cold  glass,  which 
only  made  fiercer  the  throbbing  in  each  feverish  vein. 
It  was  a  strange,  wild  scene  outside — vast  shadows  of 
the  horsemen,  as  they  passed,  wavering  up  and  down 


210  THE   PATIENT. 

on  the  white  wall  of  the  quadrangle,  in  the  glare  of 
their  own  torches ;  the  clatter  of  the  horses'  hoofs, 
and  the  confused  cries  of  their  riders  growing  rapidly 
distant.  For  a  long  time  I  could  see  the  fitful  flash 
ings  of  the  torches  along  the  forest.  They  crossed 
and  recrossed  each  other  here  and  there  among  the 
trees  like  wandering  stars.  At  last  they  dwindled, 
scattered  themselves  at  rarer  intervals,  and  finally 
vanished  into  the  darkness.  Oh  Theresa,  what  a 
dreadful  night  was  that ! 

"  One  by  one  they  kept  coming  back,  each  with  no 
good  news  to  tell.  The  morning  dawned  at  last.  It 
was  heart-breaking.  They  looked  so  hopeless,  those 
livid  faces,  in  the  cold,  melancholy  light.  Edmond 
had  not  been  to  the  land  survey.  This  was  all  they 
had  been  able  to  ascertain.  Some  accident  must  have 
happened  to  him  before  he  could  get  there. 

"  Not  sleep,  but  a  dreadful  drowsiness  kept  coming 
on  me  at  giddy  intervals.  It  brought  no  rest,  but 
bad  dreams.  I  thought  I  saw  lying  in  the  long  gray 
grass,  under  a  hollow  oak-tree,  the  bloody  corpse  of 
Edmond.  His  brow  was  crushed  and  bruised  into  the 
sodden  soil.  Then  I  heard  again  the  same  low  moan 
ing  sound  I  had  heard  before  in  the  underwood.  It 
awoke  me.  I  started  up.  It  was  the  moaning  of 
mother,  who  still  sat  in  the  chair  where  I  had  placed 
her,  clasping  her  knees,  and  rocking  her  body  back 
ward  and  forward. 

"  To  add  to  our  anxiety,  Felix  had  not  yet  returned. 
A  new  search  was  organized.  Just  as  the  seekers 
were  starting,  father  took  my  hand  without  speaking, 
and  led  me  into  the  park.  It  was  still  early  morning. 


THE  SOWING  OF  THE   SEED.  211 

"We  reached  the  little  hill  at  the  bottom  of  the  park 
without  having  exchanged  a  word  with  each  other. 
One  can  see  from  the  top  of  it,  as  far  as  the  horizon, 
the  whole  plain  of  the  surrounding  country,  traversed 
by  the  winding  waters  of  the  Weidnitz.  There  is  a 
little  wooden  bench  on  the  flat  of  the  hill's  head. 
Father  sat  down  there,  and  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 
I  drew  the  dear  old  head  gently  against  my  bosom. 
Then,  my  tears  began  to  fall  at  last,  and  his  white 
hairs  were  wet  with  them.  Without  any  settled 
thought,  I  sat  thus,  with  the  old  man's  head  upon  my 
breast,  staring  stupidly  at  the  cold,  cloudy  distance 
before  me.  I  could  think  of  nothing.  My  mind  J^ad 
lost  the  thread  of  all  things.  The  tears  in  my  eyes 
bewildered  my  sight. 

"  On  the  large  white  water  underneath  there  was  a 
small  black  boat.  The  boat  was  lazily  drifting  down 
the  sluggish  stream.  I  could  not  see  it  distinctly. 
The  whole  land,  whitened  with  the  wandering  mist, 
appeared  to  be  one  vast  and  livid  sea.  In  the  midst 
of  the  sea  was  an  open  coffin.  In  the  coffin,  stretched 
at  full  length,  was  the  corpse  of  Edmond.  The  face 
of  the  corpse  was  sharply  set  against  the  hard  gray 
sky.  It  was  white  as  marble,  but  unmarred  by  any 
wound.  The  features  were  more  placid  than  ever, 
and  more  stern.  All  at  once  the  corpse  began  to 
move.  It  lifted  itself,  and  sat  half  up  in  the  coffin. 
I  saw  it  stretch  an  imploring  hand  toward  me.  I 
tried  to  rush  forward  to  reach  it,  but  could  not.  Every 
time  that  I  endeavored  to  move,  an  invisible  hand  re 
tained  me.  Suddenly  I  awoke.  The  sea  and  the 
coffin  had  disappeared.  I  saw  the  boat  drifted  by 
the  current  into  a  bay  of  the  river. 


212  THE   PATIENT. 

"  '  Father,'  I  cried, '  look !  look !' 

"I  could  say  no  more. 

"  We  both  looked,  and  saw  a  man  rise  out  of  the 
boat,  and  step  down  on  the  bank  of  the  river. 

"  It  was  Edmond. 

"  How  we  left  the  hill  I  know  not.  I  only  remem 
ber  that  we  were  instantly  by  the  river-side,  and 
clasping  him  in  our  arms.  Father,  for  all  his  joy  and 
all  his  pain,  could  find  but  one  expression,  and  kept 
murmuring  over  and  over  again,  as  he  embraced  him, 
'  Edmond,  my  boy  !  my  beloved  boy  !' 

"  Edmond  let  us  talk  on  without  answering  a  word. 
Hi£  face  was  deadly  pale.  His  features  were  inert ; 
and,  being  vacant  of  any  expression  strong  enough  to 
hold  them  together,  they  seemed  to  have  no  relation 
to  each  other.  His  teeth  were  chattering,  his  limbs 
were  shivering,  and  his  eye  wandered  listlessly  over 
our  faces  with  a  heavy,  leaden  look.  It  was  with  the 
utmost  difficulty  we  could  get  him  to  speak  of  him 
self. 

"  Yesterday  evening,  he  said,  he  left  the  hunt  im 
mediately  after  the  death,  anxious  to  rejoin  Felix, 
whose  accident  had  made  him  uneasy.  He  tried  to 
find  a  short  cut  to  the  chateau,  and  lost  his  way  in  the 
wood.  There  was  still  twilight  in  the  fields  when  he 
entered  the  forest ;  but  there  the  night  had  fallen  al 
ready,  and  the  bridle-paths  were  quite  dark.  The 
better  to  track  his  way  through  the  thick  underwood, 
he  alighted  and  tied  his  horse  to  a  tree.  While  he 
was  still  trying  to  make  out  his  bearings,  the  horse, 
restless  or  frightened,  broke  loose  and  galloped  off. 
For  some  way  he  followed  the  noise  of  the  hoofs. 


THE   SOWING   OF   THE   SEED.  213 

This  only  led  him  farther  astray.  After  wandering 
about  in  the  wood  for  more  than  two  hours,  he  heard 
a,  noise  of  waters.  He  pushed  on  in  that  direction, 
and  at  last  found  himself  on  the  banks  of  the  Weid- 
nitz.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  he  knew  where  he  was, 
and  perceived  that  he  had  taken  the  wrong  direction. 
He  resolved  to  follow  the  course  of  the  river,  but  was 
hindered  at  every  step  by  the  dense  thickets.  Worn 
out  with  prolonged  exertion,  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  pass  the  rest  of  the  night  in  the  wood,  when  he 
stumbled  over  something  among  the  thick  reeds  along 
the  river-side.  It  was  an  empty  boat,  probably  left 
there  by  the  foresters.  With  a  good  deal  of  difficulty 
he  got  it  afloat.  He  found  that  it  would  hold  out  the 
water. 

"  There  were  several  pine-trees  in  that  part  of  the 
forest.  He  cut  a  branch  from  one  of  them — the  long 
est  and  straightest  that  his  hunting-knife  was  strong 
enough  to  cut.  With  this  he  tried  to  punt  the  boat 
down  the  river ;  but  the  waters  were  so  swollen  that 
the  spar  was  no  use  to  him.  Then  he  lay  down  in 
the  boat,  and  let  it  float  him  down  the  stream  without 
attempting  to  guide  it.  The  cold  on  the  river  numbed 
him,  and  he  soon  lost  consciousness.  The  grating  of 
the  keel  against  the  shallow  bottom  of  the  little  bay, 
where  it  touched  land,  was  the  first  thing  that  aroused 
him. 

"  *  Oh,  Edmond,'  says  father,  '  if  you  knew  what 
anxiety  you  have  caused  us !  I  wish  you  had  trusted 
the  instinct  of  your  horse  :  it  would  have  brought  you 
home  safely.  Those  beasts  can  find  the  stable  at  any 
distance.  And  such  a  night  as  we  have  had  of  it !' 


214  THE   PATIENT. 

"  Edmond  answered  nothing,  but  only  dropped  his 
head  lower,  as  if  he  was  weary  of  the  weight  of  it. 
That  man,  so  strong,  so  inured  to  fatigue,  seemed 
broken  by  the  work  of  a  single  night. 

"  '  Well,'  said  I,  '  we  mustn't  scold  him.  See  how 
ill  he  looks,  father,  and  how  weary  !' 

"  '  True,  child,  true !  go  in  first  and  prepare  moth 
er !'  father  said.  So  I  went  in  before  them.  Oh,  how 
glad  I  was  to  be  able  to  tell  her ! 

"  You  guess,  dear  Theresa,  how  great  our  joy  is 
now !  I  would  not  close  this  letter  before  I  was  able 
to  give  you  this  best  news.  Felix,  who  had  returned 
before  us,  was  almost  beside  himself  with  the  joy  of 
it.  But  my  eyelids  are  beginning  to  drop,  and  I  am 
very,  very  tired. 

"  Thank  God,  Edmond  is  safe !  How  soundly  I 
shall  sleep  now  1  Kejoice  with  us,  dear  friend.  Good 
night!" 


THE   SOWING  OF  THE   SEED,  215 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  INTEKIOR  OF  A  SOUL. 

I  SUBJOIN  six  pages  from  the  Journal  of  Count  Ed- 

mond : 

EIRST  PAGE. 

"  When  I  started  the  beast  on  his  road  with  a  stroke 
of  my  riding- whip,.  I  thought — So  be  it,  Death !  there 
goes  thy  messenger.  Let  him  snort  his  good  news  at 
the  doors  I  shall  not  enter 

"'Fear  no  more.  He  will  not  return  to  frighten 
you.  He  will  never  come  back.  Fear  no  more,  young 
lovers.  But,  if  you  would  never  see  him  again,  then, 
when  you  two  walk  arm-in-arm  about  the  pleasant 
places,  heed  well  that  you  walk  not  near  the  hollow 
oak ;  for  there,  when  the  grass  is  black,  and  the  use 
less  blood  is  filtering  through  the  dead  red  leaves,  his 
face  might  vex  you  if  you  chanced  to  see  it.' 

"  What  power  was  it  that  held  back  my  uplifted 
arm? 

"Was  it  that  puissant  impuissance — cowardice? 

"  How,  fool !  can  that  man  be  a  coward  who  trucks 
a  life  of  torment  against  the  short,  swift  stroke  that 
brings  the  long  release  ? 

"Was  it  filial  piety? 

"Blaspheme  not! 

"  Not  in  that  moment  didst  thou  think  of  father  nor 
of  mother. 


216  THE   PATIENT. 

"No! 

"  It  was  something  more  deadly  than  the  flash  of 
the  suicide's  knife  that  glimmered  up  from  the  dark, 
false  heart  of  the  water. 

"  It  was  the  violet  flame  of  that  accursed  amethyst. 
I  saw  it  kindling,  keen,  vindictive,  in  the  sullen  depths. 
I  saw  it  fawning,  crawling,  in  the  fiery  ripples.  The 
spell  of  it  was  on  me.  My  eyes  were  the  slaves  of  it. 
Looking  at  it  was  listening  to  it,  for  it  muttered  and 
muttered  as  of  old.  The  light  talked  to  me ;  and  the 
little  waves  hissed  and  lisped, 

"  '  Where  hast  thou  the  stone  ?  where  hast  thou  the  ring? 
Thou  art  ripening,  brother,  and  ripening.'1 

"  And  I  shuddered  not.  I  was  not  afraid,  for  the 
voices  were  familiar  to  me. 

"  I  had  heard  them  before. 

"  There  was  a  promise  in  them  which.  I  dared  not 
construe. 

"But  I  trusted  it. 

*  *  *  "What  seekest  thou  here?  Why  lin- 
gerest  thou  in  ^the  way  of  wholesome  human  life? 
Why  walkest  thou  thus  among  honest  men  ? 

"  There  is  mischief  in  thee.  Thou  bearest  the  sac 
rilegious  thing  in  thy  bosom. 

"  Fly ! 

"  Fly  while  there  is  yet  time.  Fly  to  the  uttermost 
distance ;  away  from  all  men ;  away  from  thyself. 
Thou  art  marked  and  signed.  Fly!"  *  *  *  * 

SECOND  PAGE. 

"Woman!  —  Eternal  schism  in  the  soul  of  man! 
Eobber  of  his  strength,  which  yet  strengthens  not 


THE   SOWING  OF  THE   SEED.  217 

thee !  Thief  of  his  will,  which  yet  confirms  not  thine ! 
Who  gave  thee — and  to  what  end,  if  not  to  thine  own 
hurt — this  power  upon  us  ?  Thou  needest  not  to  ex 
ert  it.  We  bring  thee  (we  ourselves)  our  own  de 
feats,  in  that  conflict  wherein  he  that  is  overcome  is 
the  only  one  that  has  fought. 

"  Year  after  year,  hour  by  hour,  how  have  I  lain 
my  ear  to  the  most  secret  cells  of  thy  sweet  being,  and 
listened  to  the  budding  pulses  of  its  bounteous  growth ! 
How  all  the  tender  germs  of  thy  soul's  beauty  have 
been  my  heed  and  charge !  And  how  I  thought  to 
tend  them,  and  to  train !  For  every  secretest  seedling 
of  thy  so  lovely  spirit,  I  knew  what  Nature  needed, 
and  could  antedate  the  blossom  in  the  bud.  How  in 
exhaustible  seemed  then  the  lavish,  opulence  of  beau 
ty  yet  to  be,  within  those  ripening  germs,  spread  out 
before  the  forward-looking  eye  of  my  far-gazing  and 
shortsighted  love ! 

"  And  now? 

"  A  summer  wind — a  breath — perchance  a  waltz, 
has  fixed  thy  fate  and  mine. 

"  What  know  we  ?  By  the  ways  we  watch,  Loss 
comes  not ;  but  it  comes. 

"And  perchance — perchance,  in  the  swimming  tre 
mors  of  a  dance,  some  drop  of  lighter  blood,  some 
pulse  of  brisker  motion,  has  signed  the  contract  with 
the  Gardener  of  this  Paradise — a  Hussar  1" 

THIED  PAGE. 

"  Death.     Ending.     Annihilation. 
11  This  is  all  I  can  see  at  the  extremity  of  every  ave 
nue.     All  paths  lead  to  it,  none  beyond  it.     Thou 

K 


218  THE   PATIENT. 

hast  suffered  that  thou  mightest  suffer — nothing  more 
— nothing  else. 

"  Of  what  dost  thou  complain  ? 

"  Thou  wouldst  live — thou  hast  lived.  Who  prom 
ised  thee  more  than  this  ? 

"I  would  live?  Did  I  ever  ask  for  life?  When 
have  I  ever  said  (and  to  whom?),  'Open  to  me  the 
doors  of  Life ;  I  wish  to  live?'  " 

"  Never,  never,  at  any  time  have  I  said  that. 

"  Who  has  assumed  this  right  over  me? 

"  What  can  force  me  to  keep,  against  my  will,  this 
property  in  pain  which  has  been  gratuitously  thrust 
upon  me?" 

FOURTH  PAGE. 

"  How  deep  the  roots  have  struck ! 

"  All  that  must  be  torn  up,  only  to  find  the  traces 
of  it  deeper,  deeper  still ! 

"  To  retrack,  laboriously  along  the  devious  inclina 
tion  of  a  life,  each  of  the  long,  long  stealthy  by-paths 
whereby  this  yearning  Spirit  has  stolen  into  our  heart, 
secretly,  silently,  unguessed,  there  weaving  into  its  in 
extricable  web  fibre  after  fibre  of  the  soul's  imperish 
able  stuff! 

"And  now  to  cut  out  the  rooted  garden  of  one's 
life,  patiently,  painfully,  spade  in  hand — the  labor  of 
the  grave-digger ! 

"And  how  can  I? 

"In  the  sorely  sensitive  places,  where  the  latest 
wounds  are  fresh  and  raw,  new  blood  spirts  up  from 
deeper  down;  the  wrenched  nerves  quiver  with  in 
extinguishable  life ;  and,  deepest  down  of  all — deep 


THE   SOWING  OF  THE  SEED.  219 

down  among  the  remotest  sources  of  Being — the 
youngest  eyes  of  Childhood  are  gazing,  weeping  up  to 
me ;  weeping — '  What  harm  have  we  ever  done  thee  ?' 

"  No,  no,  not  this.     I  can  not  do  it.     Not  this  ! 

"Weep  on,  sweet  innocent  stars,  weep  on. 

"What  harm  have  ye  ever  done  me? 

11 1  know  not.     But  ye  I  can  not  harm,  sweet  eyes ! 

"Best  ye,  rest  ye,  childish  angels!  rest  ye  in  your 
silent  spheres  unvexed.  What  know  ye  of  the  an 
guish  that  is  moaning  round  you?  What  know  ye 
of  the  wrongs  that  reach  so  near  ?  Eest ! 

"To  you,  oh  quiet  eyes — dear  friendly  stars  of  the 
far  off  early  time,  that  look  unconscious  kindness  still 
— I  will  turn  my  own  for  refuge  from  my  latest  self. 

"  Far  off,  far  off,  in  the  holiest  haunts  of  Memory,  I 
will  build  me  a  bower  for  Oblivion." 

FIFTH  PAGE. 

"I  have  never  looked  on  life  but  as  a  task;  never 
completed,  ever  renewing  itself,  in  each  accomplish 
ment  creating  fresh  undertaking. 

"  So  be  it,  then,  even  this  time  also. 

"However  inconceivable,  however  unendurable 
may  be  the  life  to  which  my  soul  is  awakened,  yet 
at  least  she  is  awake. 

"  Pause  not,  poor  Soul,  to  contemplate  the  ruins  of 
thy  so  wondrous  fabric  of  the  former  time.  It  is  shat 
tered.  Thou  canst  not  reconstruct  it.  See,  these  lit 
tered  shards  upon  the  sordid  earth !  Here  lie  they,  all 
thy  loving  unloved  labors — the  once  aspiring  shafts, 
the  airy  pillars,  the  kingly  key -stones — ruined,  defeat 
ured  shapes  of  Beauty  and  of  Strength,  whereon  thou 


220  THE  PATIENT. 

didst  scheme,  and  dream,  oh  Soul,  to  plant  the  Dome 
of  thy  Felicity.  . 

"  Build  not,  build  not ! 

"  Presume  not  to  be  the  architect  of  thine  own  hap 
piness. 

"  Pass  on. 

"Yet  say  ....  'The  plan  was  good  and  fair. 
Majestically  moulded  in  the  inmost  mind,  daintily 
fashioned,  and  delicately  decked  by  all  the  richly- 
ministering  Hours;  how  bold,  how  beautiful,  how 
bravely  built,  how  firmly  settled  upon  fast  founda 
tions,  how  sumptuously  solaced  with  all  noble  color 
and  harmonious  form ;  with  what  brightening  toil,  at 
what  tender  touchings,  the  temple  rose,  like  mounting 
music,  upward,  ever  upward  to  the  golden  cope,  the 
glorious  consummation  of  the  perfect  plan !' 

"But  there  Bliss  settles  not. 

"  She  will  not  dwell  in  the  house  that  is  built  with 
hands.  Free  as  the  bird  of  heaven,  she  soars  from  the 
hand  of  God ;  she  hovers  in  the  happy  air ;  she  'lights 
upon  the  trembling  bough.  There,  poised  upon  the 
yielding  tremor  of  the  tender  stem,  amid  the  dancing 
leaves,  she  sings  her  magic  song.  And  while  thou 
listenest,  upon  lightest  wing  she  flies  away. 

" Build  not,  build  not! 

"It  comes  and  goes  by  other  laws,  this  Happiness, 
for  which  we  labor  and  so  late  take  rest. 

"  Sleep ! — deedless,  aimless,  vacant,  unmindful. 

"And  on  thy  dreaming  head  the  airy  thing  will 
perch  unsummoned.  Know  it  not.  Fear  to  recog 
nize  it.  Whisper  not  its  name.  Soon  as  thou  callest 
it  thine,  thou  hast  lost  it." 


THE  SOWING  OF  THE  SEED.  221 

SIXTH  PAGE. 

"With  fire  from  what  far-off  heights,  in  glory  of 
light  how  divine,  and  with  what  holy  heat,  there 
streams  into  my  soul  the  clear  conception  of  the  sub- 
limest  image  that  man  can  contemplate  on  earth ! 

"Divinest  DUTY! 

u  Thou  that  art  to  the  soul  as  a  trumpet  sounding 
from  another  world — thou  in  whose  untroubled  depth 
of  strenuous  calm  is  reserved  for  the  consciousness  of 
man  its  only  consolation,  and  for  his  conscience  its 
sole  rest — who  dare  dispute  thy  prerogative  ?  What 
else  on  earth  may  presume  to  be  thy  peer?  Thou 
only,  large  and  sovran  Shape,  canst  fill  the  perfect  orb 
of  Contemplation ;  thou  only,  solitary  regent  of  the 
loftiest  law,  art  worthy  to  hold  unshared  dominion  in 
the  soul  of  man. 

"  For  thou  art  Certainty. 

"  Where  thou  standest,  there  is  the  vanishing  point 
in  the  long  perspective  of  deeds ;  and,  whatever  the 
course  of  the  line,  in  thee  is  the  law  and  the  end. 

"  What,  oh  Soul,  thou  hast  power  to  behold,  that 
thou  hast  power  to  be.  Seest  thou  Certainty  ?  It  is 
thine. 

"  Never  shalt  thou  bring  to  an  end  the  superhuman 
struggle.  Never  at  any  time  shalt  thou  be  able  to 
say  of  this  or  of  that, l  Enough,  it  is  finished.' 

"Eegretnot;  rejoice  not;  endure. 

"  Dare  not,  oh  wrestler,  to  say, '  I  have  overthrown.' 
The  foe  is  ever  before  thee.  The  cause  is  unending, 
eternal,  one  with  the  Godhead.  Thee  no  price  can 
pay,  no  recompense  reward.  Be  thou  the  creditor  of 


222  THE   PATIENT. 

claims  unsummed,  whose  compt  can  never  be  quitted, 
for  the  value  of  deeds  wherein  dwells  a  grandeur  too 
proud  to  be  impoverished  by  profit. 

"Kenotmce.     Sacrifice.     Suffer! 

"For,  what? 

" For  a  gain  to  be  gotten?  for  a  price  to  be  paid? 

"  What?  wilt  thou  barter  sorrow  for  joy,  as  a  huck 
ster  goods  for  gold  ? 

"Sad  were  the  bargain;  for  thou  art  rich,  but  thy 
life  is  a  pauper. 

"  Lock  up  again,  poor  world,  thy  proffered  pension 
for  pain.  How  shalt  thou  appraise  me  the  price  of  a 
pang  made  perfect  ?  What  conditions  canst  thou  add 
to  that  which  is  complete  ?  or  what  recompense  aread 
to  the  rejection  of  reward? 

"  Fain  would  I  know  in  what  coin  of  comfort  thou 
wilt  weigh  me  the  worth  of  a  consciousness  made  cost 
ly  forever  by  eternities  of  anguish  contained  in  the 
triumph  of  a  moment. 

"  No.     The  farewells  of  the  soul  are  immortal. 

"Now  is  Forever. 

"  The  felicity  rejected  from  Time  has  no  admittance 
to  Eternity ;  for  Eternity  is — not  is  to  be.  Therein  is 
neither  past  nor  future ;  and  these  are  the  conditions 
of  requital. 

"  Nothing  is  durable  but  the  duty  to  endure.  Duty 
is  the  asylum  of  the  soul. 

"Oh  Venus  Libitina!  Oh  Beauty,  beautifying 
graves !  Oh  Keeper  of  the  registers  of  Death !  Thou 
sittest  among  the  sepulchres,  yet  art  not  sad.  And 
'  Here,'  thou  sayest,  *  there  is  calm.'  I  will  believe 
thee.  Yet  there  is  a  chilly  pallor  on  thy  brows,  and 


THE  SOWING  OF  THE   SEED.  223 

darkness  in  the  circles  of  thine  eyes.  Thou,  too,  hast 
struggled. 

"  And  to  this  cold  goddess,  {hat  to  her,  also,  grace 
fulness  may  not  be  wanting,  the  great  Founder  of  the 
world  has  lent,  for  coy  companion,  Beauty's  humanest 
handmaiden,  Chaste  Shame. 

"  Vex  her  not  with  words.  Silence  is  the  chastity 
of  action. 

"  Let  no  cry  be  heard.  Crush  the  escaping  groan 
on  the  yet  quivering  lips  of  the  desires  thou  hast 
strangled.  Uncover  not  the  pale  faces  of  thy  depart 
ed.  Utter  not  their  names  aloud.  Know  thyself,  and 
bear  to  be  unknown.  Strike  down  this  beggar  heart 
that  prowls  for  alms,  and  stops  men's  pity  in  the  pub 
lic  place.  Justify  the  whole  endeavor  in  the  perfect 
deed.  Slay  thyself  and  hide  the  knife. 

"Even  so.  And  as,  in  large  compassion  of  fond 
eyes  young  graves  set  grieving,  kind  Nature  makes 
mute  haste  to  cast  over  the  hillocks  of  the  recent  dead 
her  grassy  carpet  of  the  tender  green,  so  silently,  and 
for  others'  sakes  with  such  a  noble  haste,  do  thou, 
too,  hide  beneath  the  serenity  of  a  smiling  face  the 
sorrow  of  thine  immortal  soul !" 


224  THE  PATIENT. 


CHAPTER  X. 

SAMSON  AGONISTES. 

How  far  the  preceding  page  of  the  count's  journal 
is  a  faithful  revelation  of  the  actual  state  of  his  mind 
at  the  time  when  it  was  written,  may  be  judged  by 
the  following  fragment.  For  the  impartiality  of  the 
testimony  herein  contained,  the  unconscious  charac 
ter  of  the  witness  is  the  best  guarantee. 

JULIET  TO  THERESA. 

"  I  am  thankful  to  say  that  our  anxiety  about  Ed- 
mond  is  over.  His  vigorous  constitution  has  tri 
umphantly  resisted  the  feverish  attacks  which  at  first 
alarmed  us.  Though  no  longer  suffering,  however,  he 
looks  more  serious  and  preoccupied  than  I  ever  saw 
him  before.  But  my  timidity  and  reluctance  to  tell 
him  of  our  engagement  were  utterly  unjustified,  and  I 
could  now  kneel  to  him  for  pardon  for  that  moment 
ary  foolish  shyness. 

"  When  father,  in  our  presence  (after  his  recovery), 
made  known  to  him  the  vows  we  had  exchanged,  my 
heart  fluttered  so  fast,  and  I  felt  so  frightened,  that  I 
dared  not  meet  his  eye,  though  I  felt  he  was  looking 
at  me.  But  Edmond  answered  at  once,  '  What,  dear 
friends,  and  do  you  think  that  this  is  news  to  me  ? — 
to  me,  who  have  known  ever  so  long — ay,  long  be 
fore  you  suspected  it  yourselves — that  you  two  dear 


THE  SOWING  OF  THE  SEED.  225 

ones  belonged  to  each  other  ? — to  me,  whose  fondest 
wish  is  thus  accomplished  ?  and  who,  indeed,  have 
only  waited  for  this  long-expected  moment  to  tell  you 
all  that  I,  too,  have  made  my  choice,  so  that  there  will 
soon  be  three  families  living  together,  and  loving  each 
other,  at  L .' 

"  This  news,  and,  yet  more,  the  joyous  manner  of  it, 
took  us  all  by  surprise.  We  pressed  him  to  tell  us 
more.  And — but  this  is  a  profound  secret.  Have  I 
the  right  to  tell  thee?  Yet  why  not?  I  well  know 
thou  wilt  rather  banish  it  from  thy  mind  than  let  it 
pass  thy  lips.  "Well,  then.  Thou  knowest  that  cen 
tenary  lawsuit  about  the  Eosenberg  property  near 
Oels  ?  The  present  possessor  is  childless.  The  heir 
ess  is  his  niece.  And  this  circumstance  is  sadly  in 
the  way  of  the  Eosenberg  claim.  Proposals  have 
been  privately  made  to  terminate  the  dispute  by  mar 
riage.  The  object  of  Edmond's  last  visit  to  Breslau — 
thou  thyself,  I  doubt  not,  didst  not  suspect  it  any  more 
than  we — was  to  see  the  heiress.  He  now  tells  us 
that  the  sight  of  her  has  confirmed  the  favorable  im 
pression  made  by  all  that  he  had  previously  heard  as 
to  her  character  and  education.  And  he  assures  us 
that  his  mind  is  made  up.  But  nothing  is  settled  as 
yet. 

"You  know  with  what  caution  and  deliberation 
Edmond  acts  in  all  things. 

"  In  my  secret  heart  am  I  glad  of  this  arrangement? 
Frankly,  no.  I  understand  not  this  sort  of  marriages. 
Indeed,  this  decision  of  Edmond's  would  be  quite  un 
intelligible  to  me  if  my  knowledge  of  his  character 
did  not  enable  me  to  understand  that  to  him  marriage, 
K2 


226  THE   PATIENT. 

under  any  circumstances,  would  be  the  result  of  a  de 
cision  dictated  by  considerations  of  prudence,  after 
mature  deliberation.  Well,  be  it  so.  I  am  not  made 
to  understand  it.  But  when  I  see  a  young  girl  like 
this  poor  Kosenberg  heiress,  and  when  I  must  think, 
'There  goes  she  in  the  grace  and  gladness  of  her 
youth;  and  some  poor  girlish  fancy  no  one  cares  to 
suspect  can  bring  a  softness  to  her  eyes  and  a  flushing 
to  her  cheek,  and  for  any  little  pleasure — the  uncon 
scious  kindness  of  a  careless  word;  some  peasant's 
greeting  as  he  holds  back  the  silly  branches  in  the 
cherry-orchard  not  to  touch  her  as  she  passes — the 
grateful  blood  will  brighten  as  if  to  show  how  easily 
young  souls  are  pleased,  while  her  heart  beats  quick 
er  at  the  sound  of  a  step  she  knows' — and  then,  when 
I  must  think  that  all  this  while  she  knows  not,  poor 
child,  that  in  point  of  fact  she  is  nothing  more  nor 
less  than  an  Old  Lawsuit — well,  I  say  that  saddens 
me,  Theresa." 


EXTRACT  FROM  THE  JOURNAL  OF  COUNT  EDMOND. 

"  Impossible ! 

"  I  can  no  more.  Nature  can  only  concede  to  the 
possession  of  pain  the  limits  of  her  own  strength. 

"Lord  God  in  Heaven,  look  down  upon  this  soul 
which  Thou  hast  made.  See  how  it  fares  with  Thy 
creature. 

"What  is  there  in  this  single  solitary  sentiment  to 
justify  the  tormenting  tyranny  of  it,  when  I  confront  it 
with  all  my  proud  projects,  of  which  each  seemed  large 
enough,  and  lofty  enough,  to  fill  grandly  a  great  life  ? 


THE  SOWING  OF  THE   SEED.  227 

"  What  is  it? 

"  A  wish. 

"  What  to  me  is  a  wish  ? 

"  Miserable  mendicant,  have  I  not  denied  thy  claim? 
Bankrupt  bill,  drawn  with  fraudulent  pretenses  by  the 
need  of  a  moment  upon  the  poverty  of  an  eternity 
known  to  be  insolvent,  I  have  torn  thee !  I  have  can 
celed  my  name  from  the  bond.  I  have  done  with 
thee  forever. 

"Why,  then,  art  thou  here  again?  Why  comest 
thou  back  to  me  disguised  ? 

"  More  fearful  art  thou  in  this,  thy  present  form, 
because  less  false,  than  in  that  other.  Lie  as  thou  art, 
yet  hast  thou  in  thee  now  the  terror  of  a  truth. 

"For  now  thou  hast  forsworn  thy  plausible  pre- 
tendings.  What  art  thou  now?  Less,  and  yet  more. 
Nothing,  every  thing.  Less  than  a  Wish,  yet  more 
insatiable — a  Longing.  Thou  believest  not,  affirmest 
not,  dost  promise  not,  any  more.  Thou  lookest  where 
there  is  nothing  to  be  seen ;  thou  walkest  where  there 
is  nothing  to  reach.  Spurred  by  the  conviction  of 
the  unattainable,  thou  travelest,  empty,  into  empti 
ness.  Seeking  for  seeking's  sake ;  motion  without  a 
meaning;  travail  without  birth;  a  race  without  a 
goal. 

"  What  have  I  to  do  with  thee,  womanish  wooer  of 
unmanly  souls  ?  Eank,  unwholesome  weed  of  weak 
self-pity,  insinuate  not  into  the  pulses  of  my  life  thy 
crawling  roots. 

"  Impalpable  impostor,  thou  art  detected  and  de 
nounced.  Only  as  a  wish  couldst  thou  dupe  the  cre 
dulity  of  a  mind  diseased.  To  the  eye  of  the  hectic 


228  THE    PATIENT. 

the  face  of  approaching  Death  is  florid  with  the  hue 
of  Life.  To  the  sickly  sight  the  sunset  seems  the 
sunrise,  and  decay's  red  signal  blushing  health.  Only 
to  a  mawkish  sense,  thou  feeble  Longing,  canst  thou 
look  like  Hope.  But  I  am  strong.  I  know  thee,  and 
I  will  not  know  thee.  Away ! 

"  Or  rather,  in  thy  real  form,  thou  Protean  monster 
of  the  many  faces,  reveal  thyself  at  last.  Take  pal 
pable  substance,  that  I  may  kill  thee.  Come  forth ! 
avow  thyself!  I  know  the  hellish  name  of  thee  at 
length.  Appear !  Be  seen,  for  what  thou  art,  in  thy 
most  loathsome  shape,  detestable  Lust.  Blight,  even 
in  the  body  of  the  brute !  Procurer  to  the  tiger  and 
the  ape !  Shall  I  cringe  to  a  thing  so  vile  ?  Shall  I 
stoop  to  a  force  so  foul  ? 

" Beastly,  abortive  fiend!  Fasten  thy  mad-dog's 
bite  into  my  living  flesh:  not  a  groan  shalt  thou 
wring  from  the  scorn  of  my  soul  in  her  wrath.  Un- 
shamed  in  the  consciousness  of  all  that  I  am,  un- 
quelled  in  the  kingdom  of  myself,  undebased  in  my 
dignity  of  man,  dare  but  to  stir,  and  I  strangle  thee 
dead!" 


THE  SOWING  OF  THE  SEED.  229 


CHAPTER  XL 

HOW  IT  STRIKES  A  BY-STANDER. 

LETTER    FROM    JOACHIM   FURCHTEGOTT   SCHUMANN   (AGENT   AND 

PROPERTY-INTENDANT  OF  ARTHUR  COUNT  R ,  OF  L ),  TO 

BARONESS  THERESA  N . 

"L ,  15th  September. 

"HONORED  MADAM, — As  in  duty  bound,  with  pro 
found  respect,  I  take  in  hand  my  humble  pen,  in  order 
to  acquaint  your  honor  of  the  sad  calamity  with  which 
it  has  pleased  God  to  visit  the  noble  family  of  my 
honored  lord  and  esteemed  master,  the  count.  Also, 
honored  madam,  it  is  by  the  express  orders  of  his 
honor  that  I  make  bold  to  pen  these  sad  lines,  for  his 
honor  is  in  hopes  that  your  ladyship's  esteemed  pres 
ence  may  alleviate  the  bereaved  soul  of  her  honor 
the  Lady  Juliet.  May  it  please  your  honor  to  pardon 
your  honor's  dutiful  servant  if,  in  the  recital  of  this 
sad  tale,  as  in  duty  bound,  I  occasion  great  grief  to 
your  ladyship's  kind  heart. 

"Yesterday,  14th  hujus  ;  scilicet  the  day  of  the  Ele 
vation  of  the  Blessed  Host,  being  about  the  hour  of 
8  A.M.,  and  the  morning  cloudy,  it  pleased  the  two 
young  lords,  my  esteemed  masters,  to  go  duck-shoot 
ing  down  the  river.  And  it  was  their  lordships'  in 
tention  to  cross  same  river,  videlicet  the  Weidnitz,  from 
the  point  of  the  long  bend  beyond  the  old  mill,  which 
is  at  the  distance  of  about  three  quarters  of  a  mile, 


230  THE   PATIENT. 

under  correction  I  say  it,  as  near  as  can  be,  opposite 
to  the  great  marish,  which  also  is  well  known  to  your 
ladyship. 

"  The  keeper's  lad  was  with  their  lordships  in  the 
boat  (which  is  a  likely  lad  and  an  honest,  as  your 
laydyship  knows),  and  they  let  the  dog  run  after  them 
along  the  bank  (which  is  a  black  retriever  bitch). 

"May  it  please  your  ladyship,  the  young  Lord  Fe 
lix,  my  honored  master,  was  uncommon  gay  upon  the 
morning  of  this  melancholy  occasion,  being  high  in 
his  spirits  and  exceeding  cheerful,  as  was  remarked 
by  said  keeper's  lad.  The  same  deposes  that  while 
his  honor  Count  Edmond  was  at  the  rudder,  his  hon 
or  Count  Felix,  being  at  the  bows,  and  having  got  his 
feet  astride  upon  each  side  of  the  boat,  continued, 
there  standing  upright,  with  great  mirth  and  joy,  to 
rock  the  boat  upon  the  water.  But  his  honor's  broth 
er,  my  esteemed  master,  Count  Edmond,  seeing  this, 
with  great  seriousness  besought  his  honor  to  sit  still 
in  the  boat,  and  not  to  do  this  thing,  for  that  the  wa 
ter  is  uncommon  deep  in  that  part,  and  that,  if  his 
honor  should  fall  over,  he  might  not  be  able  to  swim 
by  reason  of  his  heavy  shooting-boots.  Nevertheless, 
the  young  lord,  for  the  great  cheerfulness  that  was  in 
him  that  morning,  made  light  of  all  that  his  honored 
brother  was  saying  to  him ;  for  he  only  laughed  very 
pleasantly  all  the  while,  declaring  that  these  heavy 
water-boots  seemed  to  him  as  light  as  a  pair  of  danc 
ing-pumps. 

"  Now  at  this  moment  it  happened,  honored  madam, 
as  I  am  duly  informed,  that  a  hind  rose  in  the  brakes 
by  the  river-side,  and  the  dog  (which  is  a  young  dog, 


THE  SOWING  OF  THE  SEED.  231 

and  a  bit  wild,  but  will  do  better  when  broke,  as  shall 
be  duly  done)  ran  out  after  the  hind,  and  would  not 
come  back  to  call.  So  then  the  young  lords,  having 
landed  the  lad  that  was  with  them  in  the  boat  (as 
aforementioned),  bade  him  fetch  in  the  dog,  and  meet 
their  lordships  about  a  hundred  yards  lower  down  the 
water,  just  opposite  the  marish  (as  above).  The  lad 
tells  me  that  while  he  was  running  after  the  dog  he 
could  hear  for  some  time  the  laughter  of  my  honored 
and  lamented  master  the  young  count.  It  was  a  quar 
ter  of  an  hour  before  the  boy  could  bring  in  the  bitch, 
which,  when  done,  was  well  punished,  as  duly  de 
served.  The  same  then  repaired  to  the  place  as  above 
indicated ;  who,  when  there  arrived,  with  great  sur 
prise  beheld  the  boat  already  far  down  the  stream,  be 
yond  said  point,  drifting,  and  quite  empty.  But  of 
the  two  young  lords  was  no  trace  apparent,  near  nor 
far.  At  first  the  lad  thought  that  their  lordships  must 
have  landed  and  gone  up  the  marish,  and  that  the 
boat,  being  ill  fastened,  had  got  adrift.  So  he  waited 
some  time,  and  fired  off  his  gun ;  but  neither  to  this 
signal,  nor  to  all  his  shouts  and  cries,  was  there  any 
answer.  Then,  looking  all  about  him  in  great  per 
plexity,  he  at  last  noticed  that  there  was  something 
hanging  on  the  branch  of  a  willow-tree  this  side  of 
the  great  fen.  And  when  the  lad  went  up  to  the  wil 
low  to  see  what  this  might  be,  then  he  recognized  the 
hat  of  his  honor  Count  Felix.  At  that  sight  the  bitch 
began  to  howl.  Honored  madam,  among  all  the  folk 
in  our  parts,  specially  sportsmen,  this  is  much  thought 
of  for  a  grievous  bad  sign,  which  it  was  no  better, 
honored  madam,  on  the  present  melancholy  occasion. 


232  THE   PATIENT. 

Then  the  lad  felt  uncommon  low  in  his  mind ;  and, 
crying  and  weeping  bitterly,  he  ran  back  to  the  cas 
tle,  where  he  caused  great  alarm.  May  it  please  your 
ladyship,  the  writer  of  these  humble  lines,  your  lady 
ship's  dutiful  servant,  happened  to  be  upon  the  spot, 
and,  taking  with  him  a  few  followers,  hastened  to  the 
fatal  scene.  There,  having  got  a  punt  afloat,  we  tried 
with  long  poles  to  search  the  bottom ;  but  the  stream 
was  running  stiff,  and  I  lament  to  say  our  search  proved 
fruitless.  By  this  time  the  banks  on  each  side  were 
filled  with  folk.  Also,  honored  madam,  many  went 
up  to  their  necks  into  the  water ;  for  no  man  thought 
of  his  own  life  for  the  great  love  that  is  borne  to  the 
noble  family  of  my  lord  the  count.  At  last,  then, 
some  of  the  folk  which  was  about  in  the  water  began 
to  shout  and  call  to  us  that  were  in  the  boat,  who,  com 
ing  to  the  fatal  spot,  nigh  about  ten  paces  from  the 
bank,  all  black  and  befouled  with  mud  and  slime,  as 
was  grievous  to  look  at,  being  also  dripping  wet,  my 
honored  master  Count  Edmond.  The  same  was  quite 
insensible.  His  face  was  buried  in  the  black  ooze, 
and  his  honor's  hands  convulsively  clasped  behind  his 
head,  as  if  he  had  there  flung  himself  in  great  despair, 
which  was  a  sight  full  piteous  to  behold.  But  of  his 
honor  the  evermore-to-be-deeply-lamented  and  now 
happily-at-rest  Count  Felix,  up  to  this  day,  honored 
madam,  no  trace  whatever  has  been  found. 

"His  honor's  bereaved  brother,  my  deeply  afflicted 
and  highly  esteemed  master,  Count  Edmond,  is  un 
common  distressed  and  troubled  in  his  mind,  so  that 
the  exact  details  of  the  above-mentioned  melancholy 
occurrence  can  not  yet  be  ascertained.  For  his  honor, 


THE  SOWING  OF   THE  SEED.  233 

as  is  well  known  to  your  ladyship's  kind  heart,  was 
most  uncommon  fond  of  the  young  lord  his  brother, 
so  that,  for  the  great  sorrow  and  heaviness  of  his 
heart,  his  honor  is  still,  under  your  ladyship's  pardon, 
as  I  may  say,  almost  beside  himself.  It  appears,  how 
ever,  only  too  certain  that  the  young  lord  must  have 
fallen  into  the  water  while  he  was  rocking  the  boat ; 
and  his  lordship's  brother  must  have  tried  desperate 
hard  to  save  him,  for  his  honor's  clothes  were  wring 
ing  wet,  and  his  boots  were  so  shrunk  with  the  water 
that  we  were  obliged  to  cut  them  off  his  honor's  legs. 
Furthermore,  honored  madam,  the  count's  clothes  were 
full  covered  with  weeds  and  gravel,  through  which  his 
lordship  must  have  dragged  himself  while  searching 
for  the  defunct  at  the  bottom  of  the  river. 

"In  terminating  these  sad  lines  (and  may  it  please 
your  ladyship,  without  his  honor's  express  orders  I 
should  not  have  made  so  bold  to  put  pen  to  paper),  I 
have  also  the  honor  to  inform  your  ladyship  that  I 
have  ordered  relays  of  horses  all  along  the  post-road, 
in  order  that  your  honor  may  reach  the  castle  as  speed 
ily  as  possible.  With  the  most  profound  respect,  as 
in  duty  bound,  so  far  as  the  melancholy  circumstan 
ces  will  permit,  I  am,  honored  madam,  your  ladyship's 
humble  and  dutiful  servant, 

"  JOACHIM  FUKCHTEGOTT  SCHUMANN, 
"  Graflich  R seller  gilter  Inspector" 


BOOK    III. 

®  1) e  -fruit  0 f  1 1) c   0 e e ft. 

In  the  same  hour  came  forth  fingers  of  a  man's  hand  *  *  *. 
Then  the  king's  countenance  was  changed,  and  his  thoughts  troubled 
him. — DANIEL. 


BOOK    III. 


CHAPTER  I. 
AFTER  THE  EVENT. 

THUS  far  I  have  been  able  to  let  the  count's  papers 
speak  for  themselves.  A  great  portion  of  the  succeed 
ing  pages,  however,  is  occupied  with  irrelevant  details; 
and  I  have  therefore  thought  it  convenient  to  reduce 
the  substance  of  these  pages  into  narrative  form,  ex 
tracting  only  such  passages  as  appear  peculiarly  sig 
nificant. 


If  any  one  well  acquainted,  in  other  and  happier 
days,  with  the  chateau  of  Count  R and  its  in 
mates,  had  revisited  that  household  after  the  date  of 
the  letter  transcribed  in  the  previous  chapter  of  this 
book,  he  would  have  been  struck  by  the  fragility  of 
those  foundations  upon  which  human  happiness  is 
built. 

The  grief  of  the  count  and  countess  for  the  death 
of  their  youngest  son  must  have  acutely  increased 
their  anxiety  at  the  precarious  state  of  their  eldest 
and  only  surviving  child. 

Insensible  to  the  presence  of  all  around  him,  Ed- 
mond  wanders,  restless  and  solitary  as  a  spectre. 
Whole  days  he  passes  alone  in  ever  the  same  spot 


238  THE   PATIENT. 

upon  the  river  bank,  watching  with  glassy  eyes  the 
rolling  waters.  At  nightfall  he  glides  home,  shadow- 
like,  among  the  shadows. 

In  the  old  drawing-room,  once  so  cheerful — there 
where  Juliet's  joyous  song  and  Felix's  merry  laugh 
are  missing  now — wan  faces  in  the  heavy  twilight 
hours  peer  at  the  melancholy  windows,  or  through 
the  doors  no  greeting  enters.  When  night  is  falling, 
the  woful  watchers  at  those  windows  see  a  lonely 
figure  here  and  there  about  the  ghostly  park  restless 
ly  wandering.  When  night  has  fallen,  and  the  silence 
is  heavy  on  the  house,  the  poor  pale  listeners  at  those 
noiseless  doors  can  hear  a  dull  and  leaden  footstep  on 
the  stairs.  It  passes  the  door  which  no  hand  opens. 
Edmond  goes  straight  to  his  own  chamber,  and  shuts 
himself  in.  All  night  along  the  floor  of  that  cham 
ber,  monotonously  backward  and  forward,  the  same 
dull,  leaden  footstep  sounds.  They  can  hear  him  mut 
tering  to  himself  in  those  short  incessant  walks,  and 
sometimes  groaning  loud. 

Suddenly  a  great  change  comes  over  him.  Still 
taciturn  and  more  than  ever  self-involved,  but  calm 
and  quiet  as  before,  he  resumes  the  daily  regularity 
of  his  previous  occupations.  At  earliest  dawn  his 
horse  is  at  the  door.  The  whole  day  long  he  is  bus 
ily  engaged  about  the'  property.  Accompanied  by 
the  inspector,  he  visits  every  part  of  it ;  sets  all  things 
in  perfect  order;  and  makes  such  careful  provision 
for  the  future  as  would  seem  to  imply  the  purpose 
of  a  prolonged  absence. 

In  the  course  of  a  single  week,  as  I  find,  he  was 
three  times  at  Breslau.  The  next  week  he  goes  there 


THE   FRUIT  OF  THE   SEED.  239 

again.  This  time  he  does  not  return.  Three  days 
after  his  departure,  the  coachman  who  drove  him 
there  comes  back  with  a  letter  which  he  is  charged 
to  deliver  to  the  old  count.  In  this  letter  Edmond 
takes  leave  of  his  family  in  terms  which  indicate, 
chiefly  by  the  exaggerated  effort  to  conceal  it,  a  vio 
lent  grief,  violently  repressed. 

With  vehement  bitterness  of  reproach,  and  in  words 
often  incoherent,  he  accuses  himself  of  the  death  of 
his  brother.  Life  has  become  to  him  an  intolerable 
burden.  He  can  not  hope  for  relief  of  mind  so  long 
as  he  is  surrounded  by  scenes  which  remind  him 
every  hour  of  that  terrible  accident.  He  announces 
his  departure  for  St.  Petersburg.  It  is  his  intention 
to  enroll  himself  in  the  Eussian  army,  now  on  active 
service  in  the  Caucasus.  If  he  should  not  return,  he 
implores  his  father,  and  mother,  and  Juliet  to  let  their 
forgiveness  rest  upon  his  memory,  etc.,  etc. 

None  of  the  family  is  much  surprised  at  this  decis 
ion,  nor  at  the  language  in  which  it  is  announced. 

Though  Edmond  has  nothing  whatever  wherewith 
to  reproach  himself,  yet  it  is  easy  to  understand  how 
naturally,  how  inevitably  the  mere  fact  of  having  been 
sole  witness  of  a  calamity  so  sudden,  and  of  which  the 
victim  was  so  nearly  related  and  so  dear  to  the  sur 
vivor,  must  have  planted  into  every  bleeding  memory 
thorns  which  a  conscience  so  delicate,  and  a  nature  so 
severe  in  the  criticism  of  itself  as  those  of  Edmond, 
would  be  impelled  rather  to  drive  deeper  in  than  to 
eradicate.  All  had  felt  the  absolute  necessity  of 
change  of  scene  for  Edmond.  But  that  he  should 
have  chosen  a  remedy  so  sharp  would  doubtless  have 


240  THE    PATIENT. 

grieved  them  more,  had  not  the  excess  of  a  previous 
grief  already  blunted  those  susceptibilities  which  are 
most  prominent  to  pain. 

In  the  spiritual  no  less  than  in  the  physical  world, 
the  maximum  of  power  resides  in  the  infinitely  little. 

As  the  surface  of  the  globe  is  changed  at  last  by 
the  gradual  crumbling  of  the  hills;  as  continent  is 
severed  from  continent  by  the  slow  small  toil  of  mul 
titudes  of  softest  water-drops  washing  the  sides  of  the 
world ;  as  from  the  bosom  of  the  deep  rise  up  new 
continents  of  vast  extent,  whose  coral-building  archi 
tects  might  be  covered  by  millions  in  the  hollow  of  a 
man's  hand,  so,  also,  in  the  economy  of  the  life  within 
us,  the  constant  and  uniform  recurrence  of  little  things 
at  last  irresistibly  establishes  the  durable  basis  of  Hab 
it  and  Custom.  In  this  consists  the  healing  power 
of  work.  And  in  work  itself,  as  well  as  in  each  man's 
faculty  to  work  (second  only  to  religion,  and  the 
faculty  to  apprehend  and  employ  the  presence  of  a 
Divine  Comforter),  is  the  highest  blessing  bequeathed 
to  man  by  the  helplessness  of  his  nature.  For  man 
is  a  day -laborer,  paid  by  the  day  and  the  hour;  not 
for  the  thing  done,  but  for  the  doing  it.  He  can  not 
command  results ;  he  can  not  comprehend  the  plan 
of  the  Architect ;  he  can  not  always  choose  either  his 
place  among  his  fellow-laborers  or  the  materials  given 
him  to  work  with,  but  he  can  always  do  a  day's  work, 
and  earn  a  day's  wages. 

So  it  was  with  these  three  poor  mourners  in  the  old 

house  at  L .     Hardly  two  years  had  passed  away. 

A  superficial  observer  might  have  seen  nothing  to  re 
mark  about  the  inmates  of  the  chateau  beyond  the 


THE  FKUIT   OF  THE  SEED.  241 

fact  that  the  habitude  of  a  tranquil  sadness  had  settled 
itself  into  the  vacant  place  of  a  peaceful  felicity.  The 
chateau  had  become  a  convent.  But  in  the  one  as 
in  the  other,  life  followed  its  natural  and  necessary 
course,  reflecting  now  more  of  the  inside,  as  it  had  for 
merly  reflected  more  of  the  outside  world.  The  only 
tangent  at  which  the  sphere  of  this  closed  and  inner 
world  came  into  contact  with  that  of  external  circum 
stance  was  in  the  one  point  of  Edmond's  distant  lot. 

At  first,  for  some  time  after  his  arrival  on  that  the 
atre  of  war,  once  the  cradle  of  our  race,  his  letters  had 
been  few  and  brief.  As  time  went  on,  they  became 
more  frequent  and  more  full. 

Eemarks  about  the  manners  and  customs  of  those 
primordial  tribes ;  descriptions  of  the  nature  and  scen 
ery  of  that  country ;  observations  upon  the  analogy 
and  relationship  of  languages — that  fine  but  firmly- 
woven  thread  which  traverses,  throughout  millenni 
ums  of  change,  the  confused  history  of  man,  and 
unites,  by  almost  imperceptible  fibres,  the  end  with 
the  origin  of  human  culture — such  are  the  contents  of 
this  part  of  the  journal  and  letters  of  Count  Edmond, 
which  indicate  only  by  the  different  names  of  the 
places  from  which  they  are  dated  the  participation  of 
the  writer  of  them  in  the  events  of  the  war.  He  him 
self  never  speaks  of  these  events.  That  he  was  con 
cerned  in  them,  and  that  he  survived  them,  is  proved 
by  his  letters ;  that  this  was  almost  a  miracle  is  proved 
by  the  details  of  the  official  bulletins  of  the  Kussian 
army  in  the  public  journals  of  that  time. 

At  last  came  the  spring  of  1817,  and  with  it  the 
first  warming  ray  of  hope  and  comfort  to  the  hearts 

L 


242  THE   PATIENT. 

of  those  who  read  these  letters  by  their  cheerless 
hearth  at  L . 

Edmond  has  announced  his  return  in  a  long  letter 
to  his  father. 

But  amid  the  pulses  which  this  announcement 
quickened  in  the  old  man's  heart  was  one  to  which  a 
message  from  a  yet  more  distant  land  had  already 
said,  "  Thou  shalt  be  the  last." 

One  day,  when  this  letter  of  Edmond's  had  been 

joyously  discussed  at  the  dinner-table  at  L ,  the 

old  count  died  in  his  chair  while  still  at  table.  He 
died  of  apoplexy  without  pain,  and  his  eyes  closed  on 
the  hope  of  his  son's  return. 

So  that  it  was  now  as  lord  and  master  of  L 

that  Count  Edmond  returned  to  the  house  of  his  fa 
thers,  and  there  were  still  three  mourners  in  the  old 
chateau. 

But  the  firm,  deliberate  footstep  which  now  sound 
ed  on  the  stair,  and  over  the  long  silent  hall  at  L , 

was  no  longer  that  of  a  boy.  Whatever  of  masculine 
power  had  hitherto  slumbered  unemployed  in  the 
dreamy  character  of  the  young  count,  two  years  of 
martial  strife  and  toil,  the  hardy  life  of  a  barbaric 
camp,  and  long  resistance  to  inclement  weathers,  had 
now  ripened  into  complete  development.  His  tall, 
spare  stature ;  his  sinewy  frame,  suppled  and  harden 
ed  by  constant  bodily  exercise  and  endurance ;  the 
smooth  metallic  lucidity  of  his  firm  and  finely-chiseled 
features,  embrowned  and  fortified  by  long  exposure  to 
wind  and  sun ;  and  that  severe  suavity  and  gentle 
sternness  of  manner  which  is  only  the  attribute  of 
men  who  have  fought  down  violent  passions,  and  con- 


THE   FKUIT  OF  THE  SEED.  243 

quered  the  prerogative  of  a  strict  reliance  on  their 
own  powers — all  these,  in  their  accumulated  impres 
sion,  gave  to  the  bearing  of  Count  Edmond  that  accu 
rate  smoothness  and  strong  consistency  of  power 
which  the  sculptor  demands  from  the  bronze  to  which 
he  confides  his  conception  of  a  demigod.  The  large 
regard  of  his  luminous  and  quiet  eye,  naturally  soft 
and  plaintive.,  had  also  acquired  an  intensity  and 
depth,  which  lent  to  the  spiritual  expression  of  his 
whole  countenance  a  placidity  that  might  well  pass  for 
the  repose  of  a  soul  at  peace  with  its  own  passions. 
In  all  the  manner  and  appearance  of  him  at  that  time 
there  was,  according  to  the  unanimous  testimony  of 
eyewitnesses,  that  lordly,  unobtrusive,  but  irresistible 
self-assertion,  which  is  the  characteristic  of  those  who, 
from  the  habit  of  controlling  themselves,  instinctively 
control  others,  and  assume  unconscious  but  undisputed 
precedence  in  the  great  Ceremony  of  Life. 

His  influence  upon  those  around  him  was  the  great 
er  inasmuch  as,  during  the  last  two  years  of  absence, 
he  had  either  acquired  that  rare  tact,  or  developed 
that  yet  rarer  natural  quality,  which  graces  the  sub 
mission  of  one  will  to  another,  by  giving  to  it  the  ap 
pearance  rather  of  a  spontaneous  homage  than  of  a 
conscious  concession. 

There  are  some  natures  that  are  like  suns.  Place 
them  wherever  you  will,  they  instantly  become  the 
centre,  and  control  the  movement  of  all  things.  This 
inborn  faculty  of  control  exists  quite  independently 
of  age,  or  experience,  or  social  position,  or  intellectual 
power.  You  often  see  a  child  of  six  years  old  ruling 
by  right  divine  an  entire  household ;  and  nothing  is 


244  THE   PATIENT. 

more  common  in  public  life  than  to  find  men  of  no 
surpassing  capacities,  whose  names  never  appear  in 
the  newspapers,  but  who  nevertheless  exercise  para 
mount  and  permanent  influence  over  the  master-minds 
of  their  time. 

The  most  striking  novelty  in  the  present  conduct 
of  Count  Edmond  was  that  he  now  spoke  with  per 
fect  frankness  and  marked  frequency  about  all  that 
was  still  most  painful  in  the  events  of  the  past.  So 
far  from  avoiding  allusion  to  these  recollections  (upon 
which,  in  the  minds  of  Juliet  and  his  mother,  two 
years  of  silence  had  settled  undisturbed),  he  seemed 
rather  to  seek  for  every  occasion  to  dwell  upon  them. 
And,  in  doing  this,  he  contrived  with  such  singular 
skill  to  make  these  yet  sore  subjects  the  accustomed 
ground  for  constant  interchange  of  ideas,  that  day  by 
day,  and  little  by  little,  they  at  last  began  to  arrange 
themselves,  under  his  guiding  and  constructive  touch, 
into  the  consistent  parts  of  a  picture,  the  general  effect 
of  which,  if  pensive,  was  at  least  not  painful,  as  daily 
more  and  more  at  the  touch  of  a  master-hand  the  new 
and  brighter  lights  that  grew  out  upon  the  foreground 
softened  the  harsh  outlines,  and  melted  them  imper 
ceptibly  back  into  the  long  perspective  of  the  past. 

If  by  such  means,  on  those  occasions  which  he  had 
acquired  the  faculty-  to  create,  Edmond,  with  unwea 
ried  assiduity  incessantly,  either  sketching  in  new  ob 
jects,  or  dexterously  completing  with  consummate  art 
such  faint  unfinished  indications  as  he  chanced  to  find 
already  on  the  canvas,  contrived  by  slow  degrees  to 
engage  the  interest  of  Juliet,  by,  as  it  were,  drawing 
her  into  counsel  upon  every  detail  of  that  work  of 


THE   FKUIT  OF  THE   SEED.  245 

which  she  was  herself  the  unconscious  subject;  if  he 
thus  accustomed  her  mind  to  tend  more  and  more  to 
ward  external  action  by  giving  to  her  feelings,  hither 
to  buried  in  the  seclusion  of  her  own  heart,  the  long- 
missed  charm  of  participation,  and  the  indefinite  com 
fort  of  an  interest  which  he  had  the  art  to  make  ap 
pear  the  spontaneous  result  of  her  own  volition ;  if, 
I  say,  in  the  daily  continuance  of  these  delicate  and 
kindly  efforts,  Count  Edmond  relaxed  nothing  of  that 
patience  which  commands  and  justifies  success,  who 
can  be  very  much  surprised  that  within  a  little  more 

than  a  year  after  the  count's  return  to  L ,  when  at 

last  the  old  countess  rejoined  her  husband,  when  Ed 
mond  and  Juliet  stood  together  by  the  grave  of  their 
common  mother,  and  the  death  which  thus  reunited 
the  old  seemed  to  bequeath  to  the  young  couple  a  life 
insupportably  solitary  if  not  henceforth  united,  Juliet 
could  find  in  her  heart  no  voice  to  oppose  the  voice 
of  Edmond  when  it  pleaded  for  that  union — not  with 
the  passion  of  a  lover,  but  with  the  pathos  of  an  old 
and  faithful  friend? 

And  this  plea  was  urged  with  such  perfect  abnega 
tion  of  all  personal  desire,  such  quiet  resignation  of 
whatever  happiness  was  beyond  his  power  to  claim  or 
hers  to  grant,  while  every  reason  for  compliance  with 
it,  to  which  the  exclusive  consideration  of  her  inter 
ests  might  have  prompted  Juliet,  was  so  delicately 
employed  by  Edmond  in  favor  of  his  own,  that  she 
was  innocently  drawn  to  regard  as  a  noble  duty  and 
a  sacred  sacrifice  the  step  which  in  no  other  sense^t 
would  have  ever  occurred  to  her  to  take.  Instead  of 
saying,  "You  are  an  orphan,"  he  said,  "/am  an  or- 


246  THE   PATIENT. 

phan."  Instead  of  speaking  of  the  relations  between 
them  as  a  solace  to  which  she  had  accustomed  her 
daily  life,  he  alluded  to  them  only  as  a  source  of  sav 
ing  strength  which  he  himself  was  too  helpless  to  re 
sign. 

Thus  it  seemed  as  though  the  curves  in  which,  these 
two  lives  were  moving,  having  at  first  run  almost  par 
allel,  and  then  diverged  far  asunder,  were  bound  by 
natural  laws  to  rejoin  each  other  in  completing  the 
perfect  circle. 


THE   FEUIT  OF  THE  SEED.  247 


CHAPTEE  II. 

MATED  OR  CHECKMATED? 

BUT  in  the  innermost  soul  of  Edmond  all  was  not 
so  peaceful  as  the  smoothness  on  the  surface  seemed 
to  indicate.  It  appears  from  many  of  Juliet's  letters 
that  the  habitual  placidity  of  his  self-composure  was 
sometimes  inexplicably  disturbed. 

In  one  of  her  letters,  written  about  this  time,  I  found 
the  following  passage : 

"  The  fatigues  of  his  last  campaign,  however,  must 
have  shaken  Edmond's  health  to  an  extent  which,  in 
despite  of  his  extraordinary  powers  of  self-restraint 
and  endurance,  he  can  not  quite  conceal.  There  are 
moments  when  his  face  suddenly  becomes  white  and 
bloodless ;  his  eye  settles  in  glassy  fixity  upon  a  single 
spot;  the  wonted  composure  of  his  features  is  dis 
turbed  by  a  fearful  spasm ;  he  stands  as  if  horror- 
struck,  his  lips  convulsively  compressed,  his  chest  vi 
olently  heaving.  These  attacks  are,  as  he  himself  as 
sures  us,  the  results,  happily  now  rare  and  rarer,  of  a 
violent  fever,  occasioned  by  a  dangerous  wound,  which 
nearly  proved  fatal  to  him  in  the  Caucasus.  He  fan 
cies,  and  not,  I  dare  say,  without  reason,  that  the  coarse 
remedies  and  strong  drugs  of  the  Eussian  militarjr 
physicians  have  proved  even  more  detrimental  to  his 
constitution  than  the  fever  itself.  These  fits,  he  says, 
are  very  painful,  but  not  at  all  dangerous.  I  shall 


248  THE   PATIENT. 

never  forget  one  evening  when,  for  the  first  time,  I 
witnessed  this  strong  man,  so  habitually  master  of 
himself,  completely  convulsed  by  one  of  these  strange 
seizures. 

"  The  night  was  wild  and  gusty.  An  autumn  storm 
was  howling  outside.  There  were  long  sighing  noises 
about  the  house.  One  could  hear  the  doors  creak 
wearily  in  the  empty  upper  rooms,  while  the  dead 
leaves,  blowing  up  the  windy  avenues,  and  whirling 
round  the  house,  kept  up  a  continual  patter  on  the 
window-panes,  like  the  tapping  of  elfin  fingers.  Ed- 
mond  and  I  were  playing  at  chess.  Mother  was  doz 
ing  in  her  arm-chair  by  the  fire.  I  need  hardly  tell 
you  that  Edmond  is  much  stronger  than  I  at  this 
game.  But  he  has  the  talent  to  equalize  our  forces 
by  calculating  to  a  nicety  the  value  of  the  pieces  he 
gives  me,  so  that  I  can  almost  fancy  myself  at  times  a 
match  for  him.  That  night  the  game  had  lasted  lon 
ger  than  usual.  I  really  think  that  we  were  both  in 
earnest,  and  each  of  us  doing  his  best  to  win.  For  the 
first  time,  I  seemed  from  the  very  outset  to  have  di 
vined  the  plan  of  my  adversary's  battle,  and  had  so 
arranged  my  game  that,  whenever  he  tried  to  catch 
me,  I  was  ready  for  him  with  a  counter-move,  on  which 
he  evidently  had  not  reckoned. 

"  At  one  moment  he  seemed  to  have  quite  lost  pa 
tience.  Strange  how  eager  this  game  can  make  one  ! 
It  really  tries  the  temper.  Seeing  him  so  excited,  I 
too,  on  my  part,  put  out  all  my  strength  to  escape  his 
attack,  which  was  boldly  conceived  and  hotly  pressed. 
He  was  so  resolved  to  harass  my  Queen  that  his  usual 
caution  failed  him ;  and,  by  an  oversight,  he  laid  his 
King  open  to  my  game. 


THE  FKUIT  OF  THE  SEED.  249 

"At  last,  however,  he  made  a  master-move  with,  his 
King's  Knight  just  as  I  thought  myself  sure  to  check 
mate  him.  I  was  so  vexed  by  this  disappointment 
that  I  had  a  strong  mind  to  upset  the  board,  and  was 
just  on  the  point  of  doing  so,  when  suddenly,  as  if  by 
enchantment,  the  whole  game  appeared  completely 
changed.  A  single  piece  had  achieved  this  miracle. 
A  Castle  which  I  am  almost  sure  I  had  been  keeping 
in  reserve,  well  protected  in  a  corner  of  the  board  on 
my  enemy's  side,  was  now  standing  out  in  full  check 
to  Edmond's  King.  I  did  not  notice  this  piece  in  its 
new  place  till  Edmond  had  withdrawn  his  hand  from 
the  board.  I  thought  at  first  that  it  must  have  been 
accidentally  displaced  by  his  sleeve;  but  this  could 
hardly  have  been  the  fact,  for  there  were  other  pieces 
in  the  way  which,  in  that  case,  he  must  have  upset.  I 
certainly  felt  sure  that  I  had  not  moved  the  piece  my 
self,  and  how  it  got  half  across  the  board  without  my 
noticing  it  is  to  this  hour  a  puzzle  to  me.  I  had  not 
time  to  make  it  out ;  for  all  at  once  I  was  struck  by 
the  appalling  change  in  Edmond.  His  face  was  dead 
ly  white,  his  lips  blue,  his  eye  wild  and  haggard,  and 
his  whole  frame  convulsed  and  shivering. 

"  To  add  to  the  strange  horror  of  this  fearful  meta 
morphose,  mother,  who  was  dreaming  in  her  sleep, 
suddenly  began  to  mutter, 

"  '  Yes,  yes,  Felix,  I  know— I  know !' 

"  I  tried  to  assist  Edmond,  who  had  risen  from  his 
chair,  but  he  waved  me  away  with  his  hand,  and  stag 
gered  out  of  the  room,  feeling  his  way  with  both  hands 
along  the  wall  like  a  blind  man. 

"  I  never  told  mother  about  this  attack  of  Edmond's, 
L2 


250  THE   PATIENT. 

but  I  asked  her  afterward  what  she  had  been  dream 
ing  about,  and  repeated  to  her  the  words  she  had  ut 
tered  in  her  sleep.  She  had  forgotten  every  thing, 
however,  and  did  not  even  know  that  she  had  been 
dreaming.  We  have  never  played  at  chess  since  that 
evening.  This  game  frightens  me." 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  SEED.  251 


CHAPTER  III. 
JULIET'S  RELIGION. 

AGAIN",  in  another  letter,  which,  though  undated,  I 
have  no  difficulty  in  referring  to  the  same  period,  Ju 
liet  writes, 

"I  begin  to  think  that  Edmond  is  trying  to  hide 
from  us  the  real  cause  of  these  attacks,  and  this  makes 
me  anxious.  I  fear  that  the  frightful  recollections  of 
the  14th  of  September  must  at  least  have  something 
to  do  with  them,  and  that  all  his  heroic  efforts  and 
long  self-exile  have  not  yet  sufficed  to  dissipate  every 
trace  of  that  cruel  shock.  I  can  perfectly  understand 
this.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Edmond  has  found 
himself,  as  it  were,  confronted  with  Providence,  and 
compelled  to  recognize  the  operation  of  a  will  higher 
than  man's,  independent  of  man's,  and  inscrutable  to 
human  understanding.  Ah!  dear  Theresa,  we  may 
ignore  the  love  of  God,  we  can  not  ignore  the  power 
of  God ;  and  how  dreadful  would  be  the  power  with 
out  the  love !  I  have  no  doubt  that,  in  the  impotence 
of  his  efforts  to  save  my  lost  darling,  Edmond  must 
have  felt  the  omnipotence  of  the  great  Disposer ;  but 
it  is  in  his  nature  to  regard  himself  as  responsible  for 
the  failure  of  those  efforts.  For  Edmond  is  not  a  re 
ligious  man.  I  know  that.  At  least  he  is  not  relig 
ious  in  our  sense,  nor  according  to  our  way  of  feeling. 
His  character  is  noble  and  lofty  in  all  things,  but  child- 


252  THE  PATIENT. 

like  and  submissive  in  none.  His  intellectual  pride 
is  unbending.  I  do  not  presume  to  judge  him  on 
that  account.  Men's  minds  are  differently  constituted 
from  ours.  With  us  women,  the  heart  acts  upon  the 
mind,  and  we  think  what  we  feel.  With  men  it  seems 
to  me  that  the  mind  acts  upon  the  heart,  and  they  feel 
what  they  think.  Thus  we  get  to  conclusions  quick 
er  than  men  do,  because  with  us  conviction  is  the  re 
sult  of  feeling,  not  of  thought ;  and  feeling  is  instanta 
neous,  whereas  thought  is  progressive.  But  I  do  not 
believe  that  either  the  woman  who  feels  rightly,  or 
the  man  who  thinks  rightly,  will  act  wrongly. 

In  old  days  I  used  often  to  talk  with  our  dear  fa 
ther  about  this  religious  indifference  of  Edmond. 

Father  had  a  way  of  explaining  and  justifying  it, 
which  made  a  great  impression  on  my  mind,  because 
he  was  himself  a  man  of  unblemished  piety  and  un 
shaken  faith.  Certainly  Edmond  from  his  earliest 
years  evinced  an  extraordinary  independence  of  judg 
ment.  He  would  never  adopt  a  second-hand  opinion 
without  having  first  severely  examined  it.  In  this 
his  mind  is  singularly  conscientious ;  and  I  have  oft 
en  heard  father  say  that,  even  as  a  boy,  Edmond  used 
to  astonish  him  by  the  weight  and  precision  of  his  re 
marks.  He  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  enigmas. 
Whatever  coincides  not  with  the  perfect  structure  of 
thought,  whatever  is  not  amenable  to  the  strict  law  of 
the  understanding,  he  does  not  absolutely  reject,  but 
he  refuses  it  admission  to  his  mind,  as  being  beyond 
the  province  of  the  intellect.  According  to  him,  the 
mind  of  man  can  only  operate  within  certain  limits, 
and  whatever  exists  beyond  these  limits  does  not  ex- 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  SEED.  258 

ist  for  the  mind,  because  the  mind  can  not  take  cog 
nizance  of  that  which  it  has  no  means  of  verifying. 
Edmond  is  no  scoffer,  however.  He  denies  nothing. 
For  he  says  that  the  possibility  of  denial  involves  the 
possibility  of  affirmation ;  that  the  mind  is  not  com 
petent  to  deny  what  it  is  incompetent  to  affirm,  and 
that  we  are  only  entitled  to  affirm  what  we  are  able 
to  prove.  He  fully  admits  that  there  exists  in  man 
an  indefinite  desire,  a  vague  longing,  which  impels 
him  toward  the  unknown,  and  renders  him  susceptible 
to  the  mysteries  of  religion.  He  also  finds  it  quite 
natural  that  this  want,  like  every  other  want,  should 
have  a  tendency  to  satisfy  itself;  nay,  even  that  the 
want  of  any  thing  indicates  the  existence  of  the  thing 
wanted.  But  if  the  satisfaction  of  this  want  is  only 
possible  ~by  faith ;  and  in  faith,  and  not  possible  by  any 
process  of  thought,  or  in  any  logical  demonstration  of 
fact,  then  (he  would  say)  it  presupposes  in  man  a  fac 
ulty  which  he  may  possess  (though  how  or  whence 
he  knows  not),  but  which  he  can  not  acquire.  After 
all,  this  is  not  very  different  from  what  the  curd  says 
himself  when  he  talks  of  Grace  and  Election.  Only  I 
can  not  help  hoping  that  grace  must  come  by  prayer; 
and  if  I  rightly  understand  what  Edmond  means,  I 
suppose  he  would  say  that  prayer  is  grace — a  faculty 
not  to  be  acquired ;  and  this  is  a  chilling  thought. 

"I  remember  father  used  to  say  that  unfortunately 
our  sublime  religion  has  not  been  always  carried  out 
in  conformity  with  the  Divine  origin  of  it.  And, 
surely,  he  would  say,  a  dogma  which  is  based  entirely 
on  love  should  never  appear  beyond  the  reach  of  love. 
In  following  out  such  a  dogma,  a  child  might  be  our 
guide.  And  was  not  the  Savior  of  the  world  himself 


254  THE   PATIENT. 

a  child  ?  And,  in  all  worldly  matters,  did  He  not  re 
main  a  child,  even  to  the  Cross?  '  Ah  !  children,'  fa 
ther  would  say,  '  name  me  the  man  that  ever  offered 
himself  up  to  be  crucified  for  the  love  of  all  mankind. 
Alexander  the  Great  ?  He  died  of  a  fit  of  intemper 
ance.  Julius  Caesar  ?  He  fell  an  unwilling  victim  to 
his  own  ambition.  Yet  these  men  have  been  exalted 
to  the  rank  of  demigods,  and  held  up  to  us  as  great 
examples.  Or  the  Philosophers?  Pythagoras,  to 
whom  Divine  honors  were  paid?  He  lived  chiefly 
for  himself,  and  shunned  the  vulgar.  Or  Zeno,  dying 
in  hale  old  age,  to  whom  was  voted  a  brazen  statue 
and  a  golden  crown  ?  Or  Epicurus,  whose  birthday 
was  honored  with  annual  festival?  Or  Empedocles, 
who  flung  himself  into  Etna  for  vanity's  sake,  and  to 
cheat  the  admiration  of  the  world  ?  Or  Plato,  who 
took  care  of  his  health  and  died  painless  ?  m  Or  Soc 
rates,  best  and  wisest  of  all,  who  was  sacrificed  by  the 
Athenians  ?  Even  of  him,  can  it  be  said  that  for  deep 
love  of  all  the  human  family  he  sought  and  died  a 
torturing  death  ? 

"  '  No,  no !  the  power  of  Christianity  is  in  the  sacri 
fice  of  Christ.  The  whole  Christian  precept  is  in  the 
Christian  deed.  But  this  has  not  been  adequately 
borne  in  mind.  Doctrine  has  been  added  to  doctrine, 
while  example  has  dwindled  out  of  sight ;  and,  while 
all  history  teaches  the  power  of  religion  upon  the 
spirit  of  man,  every  page  of  history  proves  how  that 
power  has  been  perverted  to  worldly  use?.  While 
the  Church  has  been  building  up  her  establishment, 
Faith  has  been  left  to  shift  for  herself.  Yet  the 
Church  has  more  than  once  been  shaken  to  her 
foundations,  while  Faith  has  never  lost  her  hold  upon 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE   SEED.  255 

man.  "Well,  then,  how  can  we  wonder  if  the  children 
of  these  later  times  are  born,  and  grow  up,  and  live 
in  doubt?  They  are  the  inheritors  of  a  vast  super 
structure,  the  growth  of  successive  ages,  which  is  be 
wildering  even  to  contemplate,  which  is  a  maze  of  in 
congruous  architectures,  and  which  they  must  never 
theless  take  as  they  find  it,  without  diminution  or  ad 
dition.  But,  while  this  edifice  has  been  growing  in 
all  directions,  the  sacred  fountain  of  which,  after  all, 
it  is  only  the  shrine,  has  been  neglected  and  over- 
heaped  with  ruin.  Yet  we  are  bidden  to  maintain 
every  stone  of  the  temple  for  the  sake  of  the  old  well 
head  which  the  temple  is  choking  and  hiding.' 

"In  this  way  father  would  gently  extenuate  Ed- 
mond's  indifference  to  religious  dogma,  and,  rather 
than  blame  him  for  lacking  conviction,  he  praised  him 
for  honestly  endeavoring  to  substitute,  for  convictions 
which  he  could  not  conscientiously  profess,  a  strict 
and  exact  adherence  to  the  duties  imposed  upon  him 
by  the  noble  severity  of  his  own  judgment.  'And 
so,'  he  used  to  add,  laughing,  'we  may  let  Edmond 
alone  for  the  present.  For  the  future  I  have  no  fear. 
The  day  will  come  when  love,  the  grand  teacher  of  us 
all,  will  enter  my  boy's  heart  Then  the  scales  will 
drop  from  his  eyes.  Let  him  but  once  realize  that 
true  and  fervent  love  which  asks  nothing  for  itself, 
which  is  chiefly  blessed  and  beautified  in  the  bounte 
ous  consciousness  of  the  existence,  the  holy  contem 
plation  of  the  worth  of  what  it  loves — that  love  which 
makes  men's  thoughts  religious  and  men's  hearts  child 
like — then  you  may  be  sure  that  his  hands  will  invol 
untarily  clasp  themselves  in  a  prayer  that  will  need 
no  prompting  from  without.'  " 


256  THE   PATIENT. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
SIGNS  UPON  THE  ROAD. 

ONE  other  extract  from  these  letters  of  Juliet,  and 
I  hasten  to  drop  the  curtain  on  a  picture  which  would 
not  have  been  so  long  obtruded  on  the  reader's  atten 
tion  but  for  the  significance  of  its  relation  to  the  events 
immediately  to  be  recorded.  The  following  extract 
contains  the  account  of  a  circumstance,  to  which,  in 
connection  with  others  of  the  same  nature,  Edmond 
himself  alludes  in  that  paper  which  came  by  chance 
into  my  hands  on  the  occasion  of  my  accident  in  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne.  The  letter  from  which  it  is  taken 
must  have  been  written  about  a  month  before  the 
death  of  the  old  countess. 


"  Edmond,  who  had  long  been  free  from  all  attacks, 
lately  alarmed  us  exceedingly.  This  time  mother  was 
with  us,  and  saw  what  took  place;  but  fortunately 
she  only  saw  in  it  an  accident.  I  saw  more,  and  was 
dreadfully  frightened ;  but  this  event  has  really  proved 
our  salvation,  and  I  now  recognize  in  it  the  hand  of 
Providence,  which  uses  evil  for  beneficent  purposes. 

"  It  was  a  fine  warm  afternoon.  Edmond  had  en 
gaged  us  to  drive  over  in  the  pony  carriage  to  the  old 
water-mill  by  the  Giant's  Seat.  He  himself  accom 
panied  us  on  horseback,  sometimes  riding  by  the  side 


THE  FEUIT  OF  THE  SEED.         257 

of  the  carriage,  sometimes  on  before.  He  had  prom 
ised  us  a  pleasant  surprise.  I  must  tell  you  that  Ed- 
rnorid,  with  great  skill  and  taste,  has  succeeded  in 
bringing  all  the  most  beautiful  views  about  L — 
within  the  circle  of  the  park  itself.  The  old  straight 
carriage  -  drives  have  been  done  away  with,  or  so 
changed  that  they  now  wind  in  and  out  among  the 
busks  and  thickets,  sometimes  plunging  under  deep 
masses  of  foliage,  sometimes  sloping  into  long  green 
vistas,  or  breaking  upon  lovely  open  views. 

"  After  winding  about  in  this  way  for  about  three 
quarters  of  a  mile  through  the  great  copse  at  the  bot 
tom  of  the  Home  Park,  we  came  quite  unexpectedly 
upon  a  view  of  the  mill  which  was  entirely  new  to  me. 
Unawares,  and  silently,  the  thick  foliage  had  fallen 
away  from  us  on  either  side,  and  we  found  ourselves 
upon  a  high  grassy  terrace  overhanging  the  ravine. 
The  scene  was  as  enchanting  as  it  was  unexpected. 
To  the  right  uprose  black,  abrupt,  and  bare  of  herb 
age,  like  the  side  wall  of  a  world,  the  Giant's  Seat.  A 
vast  white  cloud  was  settled  in  slumbrous  masses-  on 
the  summits.  It  was  the  mellowest  hour  of  the  after 
noon,  and  the  whole  bosom  of  the  snowy  vapor  was 
bathed  in  golden  light.  Higher  up,  the  warm  sky 
was  in  its  deepest  blue,  and  the  height  of  the  rock's 
steep  flank  had  the  strange  effect  of  seeming  to  give 
unusual  height  to  the  heaven  itself.  Above  the  rock, 
and  above  the  cloud,  in  that  deep  blue  dome  of  breeze- 
less  air,  two  brown  hawks  were  hovering  and  wheel 
ing.  Over  the  long  and  thickly-foliaged  gorge  a  broad 
veil  of  transparent  purple  shadow  was  drawn  slant 
wise  from  base  to  summit,  slicing  one  half  of  the  op- 


258  THE   PATIENT. 

posite  slopes  from  the  languid  yellow  light  that  still 
leaned  downward  from  the  edges  of  rich  green. 
Hutched  among  the  gray  and  dewy  slabs,  in  the 
bloomy  bottom  of  the  glen,  the  old  brown  mill  was 
crouching  by  his  spectral  wheel.  Swift  from  the  clo 
ven  summit  high  above,  down  sprang  the  shining  wa 
ter-serpent  on  his  prey.  There  was  no  sound  in  the 
warm  hollow  but  of  the  shattering  of  the  long  cool 
water,  and  the  groaning  of  the  black-ribbed  wheel, 
which,  caught  in  that  foaming  coil,  kept  spinning  from 
his  dripping  web  tissues  of  dropping  pearl  and  dia 
mond  sparks.  But  underneath,  the  violent  water-spir 
it,  appeased  by  previous  exercise  of  power,  lay  at  large 
and  at  ease  in  a  placid  pool  of  vivid  emerald,  about 
whose  basalt  brinks  burned  brilliant  clusters  of  the 
bright  red  moss.  Half  way  up  the  glooming  mount 
ain-wall  a  phantom  prism  came  and  went,  and  rose 
and  fell,  at  fitful  intervals,  as  ever  and  anon  the  floated 
smoke  of  throbbing  spray  was  tossed  into  the  sun  a 
hand's-breadth  higher  than  the  extreme  slope  of  the 
sunless  air  beneath.  The  spirit  of  the  stillness  was 
melancholy,  not  morose. 

"  We  could  hardly  bring  ourselves  to  relinquish  the 
luxury  of  admiration  with  which  we  lingered  in  this 
charming  spot.  But  the  afternoon  had  deepened 
round  us  unperceived,  and  at  last  Edmond,  remind 
ing  us  that  we  had  still  to  visit  the  mill  itself,  pushed 
on  his  horse  toward  the  mountain  road  which  he  has 
lately  constructed,  and  made  a  sign  to  the  coachman 
to  follow.  I  leaned  back  in  the  carriage,  pensive  and 
dreamy.  There  was  a  soothing  softness  in  the  early 
autumn  air.  At  that  moment  the  heavy  burden  of 


THE  FKUIT  OF   THE   SEED.  259 

memory  seemed  lightened,  and  the  ever-present  past 
more  tolerant  of  peace.  Something  in  the  view  we 
had  just  been  admiring  had  drawn  my  thoughts  to 
ward  Edmond ;  for,  indeed,  this  view  has  been  almost 
called  into  existence  by  his  artistic  skill.  He  was 
riding  on  before  us  slowly.  He  never  looks  more  to 
advantage  than  on  horseback.  At  the  junction  of  the 
old  carriage-drive  with  the  new  road,  which  runs 
along  the  flank  of  the  Giant's  Seat,  there  is  a  finger 
post,  which  now  came  into  sight  at  the  bend  of  the 
valley,  with  its  long  arm  and  stretched  forefinger 
pointed  at  us,  almost  as  if  it  were  trying  to  warn  us 
back.  So,  at  least,  I  have  since  fancied.  Edmond 
was  just  in  front  of  the  finger-post,  and  going  to  turn 
the  corner.  Suddenly  he  gave  a  faint  cry.  I  saw  the 
reins  drop  from  his  hands ;  I  saw  him  fling  up  his 
arms  and  put  his  hands  before  his  eyes.  He  reeled 
back  in  his  saddle  as  if  he  had  been  shot,  and  the  next 
moment  he  was  stretched  upon  the  ground  senseless. 
We  jumped  out  of  the  pony  carriage  and  ran  to  assist 
him.  The  groom,  too,  who  was  following,  rode  up  in 
haste  and  alighted. 

"While  we  were  still  stooping  over  Edmond,  we 
were  all  terrified  by  a  tremendous  noise  close  to  us. 
We  looked  up.  The  mill  had  become  invisible. 
Hardly  a  hundred  yards  before  us  an  enormous  frag 
ment  of  rock,  covered  in  a  cloud  of  white  dust,  lay 
sheer  across  the  road  and  barred  the  passage.  The 
ponies  took  fright,  turned  round,  and  dashed  home 
ward  at  full  speed.  Fortunately,  the  carriage  upset, 
and  this  enabled  the  coachman,  who  showed  great 
presence  of  mind,  to  stop  them  and  bring  them  back. 


260  THE  PATIENT. 

All  this  while  we  were  about  Edmond.  He  soon 
came  to  himself,  and  none  but  I  had  any  suspicion  of 
the  true  cause  of  his  fall.  I,  however,  who  had  seen 
one  of  these  seizures  already,  could  have  no  doubt  as 
to  the  nature  of  this  one.  For  the  rest,  thank  God! 
he  was  not  in  the  least  hurt.  Before  the  groom  could 
come  back  with  another  carriage,  we  had  time  to  ex 
amine  the  landslip.  The  wall  to  the  right,  along  the 
new  road,  is  only  just  built.  The  workmen  had  not 
given  it  sufficient  support.  It  had  broken  down,  and 
a  vast  fragment  of  rock,  which  had  been  displaced  to 
make  room  for  the  road,  had  fallen  with  it,  just  at  the 
moment  when,  but  for  Edmond's  accident,  we  should 
all  have  been  passing  under  it,  and  must  in  that  case 
have  been  infallibly  crushed  to  death." 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  SEED.  261 


CHAPTER  Y. 
EDMOND'S  RELIGION. 

I  NEED  add  nothing  to  these  extracts.  Here,  then, 
is  the  point  to  which  this  unhappy  man  was  come. 
No  matter  how  strongly  he  might  strive  against  it,  he 
remained  a  prey  to  the  mysterious  action  of  a  Power 
unknown  to  those  around  him,  and  incredible  to  him 
self. 

In  vain  (his  journal  proves  it)  did  he  endeavor  by 
every  means  in  his  power  to  convince  himself  of  the 
impossibility  of  apparitions. 

THE  HAND  was  there. 

The  spectral  amethyst  still  smote  him  with  its  vio 
let  rays. 

Not  always.  Not  when  he  wished  it.  Not  by  ex 
pressly  exciting  his  imagination  could  he  bring  it  be 
fore  him.  For  this  he  had  often  tried.  Since,  if  he 
succeeded  in  this  (he  thought),  then  the  spell  would 
be  broken ;  then  he  might  analyze  the  nature  of  the 
vision,  investigate  the  causes  and  conditions  of  it,  and 
rest  sure  that  whatever  he  was  able  to  evoke  by  pow 
er  of  will,  he  should  always  be  able  to  dismiss  by  the 
same  power. 

Not  being  able  to  do  this,  he  hoped  to  accustom 
himself  to  this  spectral  visitant  which  he  could  Nei 
ther  sunrtnon  nor  exclude ;  and  he  labored  to  render 
the  thought  of  it  familiar  to  his  mind.  Labor  lost ! 


262  THE   PATIENT. 

When  the  last  apparition  already  seemed  to  him  as 
a  half-forgotten  drearn ;  when,  in  the  full  enjoyment 
of  untroubled  health,  and  the  clear  consciousness  of 
intellectual  power,  he  might  reasonably  assume  that 
he  had  fairly  rid  himself  of  a  temporary  nervous  irri 
tability,  then,  by  ways  the  most  unexpected,  and  ever 
with  increased  significance,  IT  returned. 

In  the  mid-heart  of  the  barbarous  battle,  in  the 
treacherous  solitude  of  the  mountain  ambush,  had  he 
not  seen  that  hand  put  aside  the  gun  that  was  leveled 
at  his  head?  Among  the  balmy  autumn  woods  at 

L ,  when  not  the  shadow  of  a  cloud  in  heaven 

gave  omen  of  the  sure  destruction  to  which  a  hundred 
paces  farther  must  have  brought  him,  had  he  not  rec 
ognized  the  lurid  ring  upon  the  stretched  forefinger 
of  that  posted  arm,  imperatively  warning  him  back? 
And  once  before,  over  the  chessboard,  when  he  had 
boasted  to  his  own  heart  that  Juliet  could  not  escape 
him,  had  it  not  crossed  his  game,  and  found  a  means 
to  let  him  understand  that  it,  the  Spectre,  would  know 
how  to  balk  him  ? 

Would  the  thing  execute  its  menace  ?  Would  his 
be  always  the  only  eye  to  see  the  apparition?  Or 
would  it,  at  some  later  time,  reveal  itself  also  to  oth 
ers  ?  These  were  the  doubts  that  assailed  him.  So 
must  he  live  on. 

He  had  built  up  for  himself  an  elaborate  edifice  of 
internal  law,  suggested  by,  and  based  upon,  the  anal 
ogy  of  the  visible  organism  of  forces  acting  on  exter 
nal  nature.  In  this  system  the  relations  of  cause  and 
effect  were  so  close  as  to  admit  no  place  for  passivity. 
Action  only  was  considered  capable  of  consequence. 


THE   FKUIT  OF  THE  SEED.  263 

Causation  could  not  exist  in  that  which  had  no  action. 
The  thing  that  was  not  done  was  not  at  all.  What  ef 
fect  could  be  attributed  to  that  which  itself  had  no  ex 
istence  ? 

In  this  circle  of  ideas  his  mind  continually  moved. 
I  find  proof  of  it  in  all  he  wrote. 

This  is  why  the  inscription  on  the  Egyptian  ring 
had  so  strongly  seized  upon  his  imagination.  His 
own  thesis  had  arisen  from  the  tomb,  fortified  by  the 
authority  of  twenty  centuries.  This  is  why  he  had  so 
cautiously  considered  each  active  expression  of  his 
will,  so  scrupulously  weighed  every  action  of  his  life. 
As,  according  to  this  way  of  thinking,  the  sum  of  ef 
fects  must  be  equal  to  the  sum  of  causes,  and  as  he 
thought  that  he  could  precisely  predicate  the  first  if 
he  carefully  calculated  the  last,  he  assumed  for  certain 
that  he  could  never  become  the  slave  of  a  passion ; 
since,  passion  being  only  an  effect,  had  he  not  before 
hand  measured  and  assigned  to  it  its  definite  extent 
by  the  exactly  equivalent  limits  accorded  to  the  cause 
of  it  in  his  proper  action  ? 

In  the  same  way  he  reduced  his  responsibility  to  a 
similar  equation.  So  much  action,  so  much  respon 
sibility.  He  would  suffer  himself  to  recognize  and 
accept  no  responsibility  which  was  not  contained  in 
(and  legitimized  by)  this  equation.  To  his  own  law 
he  had  strictly  adhered.  The  law  of  his  mind  he  had 
made  the  law  of  his  nature.  He  had  never  evaded 
it,  never  opposed  it,  never  flinched  from  it.  In  this 
he  had  sought  security,  and  to  this  he  now  clung  with 
the  energy  of  despair.  In  his  own  sense  he  had  nev 
er  failed,  never  been  wanting.  He  had,  under  no 


264  THE   PATIENT. 

provocation,  ever  humiliated  himself  in  his  own  eyes. 
He  dared  not  do  so ;  he  could  not  do  so ;  for,  in  this 
system  of  his,  he  had  left  himself  not  so  much  as  a 
foot's  breadth  for  escape  from  failure.  A  system 
which  did  not  admit  of  weakness  could  not  provide 
for  pardon.  By  the  side  of  his  law  was  chaos:  one 
step  beyond  his  inch  of  solid  ground,  the  abyss.  Me 
diation  was  impossible  where  there  was  nothing  inter 
mediate.  At  the  summit  of  his  severe  religion,  in  the 
place  of  a  compassionate  Christ,  stood  a  relentless  Ne 
cessity. 


THE   FRUIT  OF  THE  SEED.  265 


CHAPTER  VI. 

.  BEFORE  THE  ALTAR. 

IT  was  the  day  fixed  for  the  marriage.  It  had  been 
settled  that  the  ceremony  should  take  place  in  the 
private  chapel  of  the  chateau,  and  in  the  presence  of 
only  a  few  witnesses — the  most  intimate  friends  of 
the  family. 

Edmond  had  long  looked  forward  to  this  moment. 
He  felt  that  it  would  be  the  decisive  crisis  of  his  life, 
and  he  was  forewarned  that  the  Spectre  would  appear. 
He  was  resolved  to  confront  it  withqut  flinching. 
By  resolutely  fixing  in  his  mind  the  thought  of  the 
apparition,  he  sought  to  prepare  himself  to  sustain, 
undefeated,  the  shock  of  that  sudden  terror,  of  which 
the  triumph  is — madness.  It  was  neither  of  Heaven 
nor  of  Hell,  but  of  himself,  that  he  sought  strength 
for  the  final  conflict. 

When  he  felt  that  he  was  master  of  himself,  he 
went  to  meet  his  betrothed. 

Those  that  saw  him  pass  said  to  each  other,  "See 
how  brave  and  hearty  is  our  young  lord  to-day! 
How  gallantly  goes  he  yonder,  with  his  manly  step 
and  handsome  face.  On  him  Heaven's  blessing  visibly 
reposes ;  for  he  is  of  a  noble  nature,  and  'tis  written 
clear  on  the  brow  of  him  that  there  is  not  in  his  veins 
one  drop  of  sullied  blood." 

M 


266  THE   PATIENT. 

But  none  of  them  could  see  the  stormy  brewagc 
that  was  working  deep  under  that  serene  exterior. 

Those  who  have  ever  visited  the  silver  mines  at 
Freiberg  or  the  Hartz  will  be  familiar  with  a  fugitive 
and  beautiful  phenomenon  which  occurs  during  the 
process  of  melting  the  ore,  and  lasts  but  an  instant 

The  miners  call  it  siTherUick. 

When  the  air  first  comes  into  contact  with  the  in 
candescent  liquid  mass,  there  is  seen  for  a  moment  a 
bright  iridescence  of  vivid  colors  in  rapid  motion. 
This  brilliant  phantom  is  produced  by  the  impure 
alloy,  which,  under  a  light  whitish  cloud,  suddenly 
combines  with  a  particle  of  the  oxygen  in  the  atmos 
phere. 

The  metallic  mass,  seized  with  a  twirling  move 
ment,  manifests  variations  more  and  more  rapid,  and 
shines  with  the  shifting  light  of  the  most  beautiful 
evanescent  tints.  Suddenly  all  movement  stops.  For 
an  instant  the  molten  metallic  surface  loses  all  its 
lustre — looks  dull,  opaque,  and  dead.  Then  there  is 
a  farther  change ;  and  instantaneously  the  same  sur 
face  is  completely  overspread  with  the  smooth  clear 
polish  of  the  pure  silver.  Under  the  influence  of  in- 
tensest  heat,  all  the  particles  of  foreign  matter  have 
been  dissipated.  But  at  the  bottom  of  the  melting- 
pot  they  have  left  a  trace  of  their  passage — a  small 
black  spot. 

The  miners  say,  "Reine  silher  blicJd  nie"  (The pure 
silver  has  no  silberllick.) 

The  fire,  finding  nothing  more  to  consume,  leaves 
—on  the  surface,  a  smile;  in  the  interior,  a  raging 
heat;  deep  at  bottom  of  all,  a  black  spot. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  SEED.         267 

This  is  the  silberUiclc. 

When  Edmond  stood  before  the  altar  at  the  side 
of  his  betrothed,  there  was  a  smile  upon  his  face. 

It  was  the  silberblick. 

For  his  thoughts  were  not  in  the  sanctuary.  He 
saw  neither  the  priest  before  him,  nor  the  bride  beside 
him,  nor  the  witnesses  around  him. 

He  was  waiting  for  the  Spectre.  He  was  arming 
himself  for  a  supernatural  combat. 

He  knew  It  would  appear ;  and,  for  the  first  time, 
his  own  spirit  felt  itself  a  match  for  his  ghostly  assail 
ant.  Nothing — not  even  the  movement  of  a  muscle 
—betrayed  that  this  man  was  challenging  with  super 
human  defiance  the  whole  world  of  spirits  to  banish 
that  smile  from  his  face. 

All  his  senses  were  sentinels,  vigilantly  on  the 
watch.  He  was  throwing  out  scouts  and  outposts  in 
every  direction.  He  was  making  his  great  recon 
noitre.  He  peered  into  every  corner.  He  heard  the 
slightest  noise  almost  before  it  was  audible.  Before 
him,  around  him,  here,  there,  every  where — ay,  even 
outside  among  the  corridors,  and  in  the  porch,  the 
park — there  where  eye  and  ear  withdrew  their  aid, 
his  nerves,  stimulated  to  the  highest  pitch,  had  forced 
into  his  service  a  new  unintermediate  sense,  where 
with  to  meet  midway,  and  so  forestall,  the  onset  of  his 
phantom  foe.  Should  he  succeed  in  this — should  he, 
by  a  supreme  effort,  contrive  to  forelay  the  apparition 
before  it  appeared,  then  victory  was  assured  to  him. 
The  Ghost  would  have  been  beaten  before  it  could 
come  into  the  field. 

And  all  this  while  he  was  standing  there — the  altar 


268  THE   PATIENT. 

before  him,  his  bride  beside  him,  all  eyes  upon  him — 
standing  there,  smiling,  erect,  placid,  with  his  wonted 
noble  air  of  easy  power  and  unstudied  grace,  free  from 
all  apparent  effort,  free  from  all  apparent  fear,  and  yet 
withal  as  beseemed  that  sacred  place  and  solemn  hour, 
in  reverent  attitude  before  the  minister  of  God. 

Now  is  come  the  moment  of  the  benediction.  Now 
the  priest  invokes  the  bride  and  bridegroom  to  join 
hands. 

Now,  surely,  It  must  come? 

Calling  up  all  his  powers,  setting  all  his  battle  in 
exactest  order,  once  more  Count  Edmond  scrutinized 
with  keenest  insight  every  nook  and  can  tie  of  the 
chapel.  Wherever  a  shadow  could  lurk,  wherever  a 
single  ray  of  dubious  light  could  steal,  behind  every 
column,  along  every  wall,  probing  each  crevice,  sound 
ing  each  chink,  following  each  mote  in  the  sunbeam, 
searching  each  shade  on  the  flintstone,  he  sent  forth 
his  spies  and  informers. 

Nothing. 

Now  he  could  dare  it.  Now  the  Spectre  was  baf 
fled — banished.  The  stealthy  thing  had  not  been 
able  to  find  unguarded  a  single  cranny  in  the  material 
world  whereby  to  enter  in,  and  storm  the  citadel  of 
the  soul. 

He  put  forth  his  hand  to  join  the  hand  of  Juliet  in 
eternal  union,  and — 

It  was  tJiere. 

There.  In  the  hand  of  Juliet,  the  hand  of  his  broth 
er  Felix. 

Courage !  Flinch  not,  man !  Flinch  not  now !  It 
has  come.  It  is  here.  The  Ghost  has  kept  his  word. 


THE   FHUIT  OF  THE  SEED.  269 

He  tried  to  pluck  those  dead  man's  fingers  out  of 
the  hand  of  his  betrothed. 

He  could  not. 

The  amethyst  kept  him  off.  The  amethyst  shot  at 
him  its  spiteful  burning  beams.  The  amethyst  hissed 
at  him  with  its  scorching  whisper, 

"Disturb  not  the  Hand  of  Destiny  " 

His  will  rebelled,  and  audaciously  issued  its  com 
mands.  Every  limb  of  his  body  was  paralyzed,  and 
refused  to  obey. 

The  priest  pronounced  the  sacred  words,  and  blessed 
the  union  of  the  pair. 

What  pair  ? 

Edmond  heard  and  saw  all.  Mechanically  his  lips 
proclaimed  the  inviolable  vow. 

For  another. 

For  a  dead  man  ! 


270  THE   PATIENT. 


CHAPTER  VII. 
EDMOND  AFTER  THE  MARRIAGE. 

THE  ceremony  was  over.  The  nuptials  were  con 
cluded. 

Edmond  had  kept  the  promise  he  had  made  to  him 
self.  He  had  not  flinched.  Not  a  muscle  had  quiv 
ered,  not  a  nerve  had  revolted  from  the  dominion  of 
that  iron  will. 

But  he  felt  that  he  was  now  at  the  end  of  his  teth 
er.  His  strength  was  exhausted.  His  blood,  so  long 
and  so  severely  restrained,  now  beat  and  surged  with 
savage  power  against  the  walls  of  his  brain.  His 
brain  boiled. 

He  still  saw  clearly  before  him,  but  what  he  saw 
was  fearful  to  be  seen.  He  knew  where  he  was — on 
the  brink  of  the  abyss.  He  knew  whither  he  was  go 
ing — to  the  deepest  depth  of  it. 

He  was  perfectly  conscious  that  he  could,  at  the  ut 
most,  only  purchase  a  few  more  moments  of  self-con 
trol  at  the  price  of  insanity. 

These  moments  he  could  accurately  calculate.  He 
counted  them  up,  and  knew  the  exact  sum  that  he 
could  still  dispose  of. 

"With  a  hideous  clearness  of  intellect,  with  an  atro 
cious  self-suppression,  he  conducted  his  young  bride 
to  the  great  banquet-hall,  where  the  assembled  guests 
were  now  waiting  to  felicitate  the  bride  and  bride 
groom. 


THE   FRUIT  OF  THE   SEED.  271 

With  unruffled  composure  he  received  their  con 
gratulations.  He  had  a  gracious  look  and  a  well- 
placed  word  for  each  and  for  all.  Urbane  and  placid, 
he  withdrew  himself  from  the  hall. 

Making  a  sign  to  his  valet  to  follow  him,  Count 
Edmond,  with  a  firm  footstep,  regained  his  own  apart 
ments.  They  were  at  the  extreme  pnd  of  the  house. 

"With  his  accustomed  tranquillitjf  and  in  a  voice  no 
tone  of  which  was  shaken,  he  then  said  to  the  valet, 

"  I  give  you  four  minutes.  Go,  fetch  me  here  four 
lackeys,  or  four  of  the  stable-men — the  tallest  and 
strongest  you  can  lay  your  hands  on.  Let  them  bring 
with  them  rope  and  cord — the  stoutest  that  can  be 
found,  and  plenty  of  it.  Make  haste." 

The  valet  was  accustomed  to  obey  orders  prompt 
ly,  and  without  answering.  Like  master,  like  man. 
Count  Edmond's  serving-man  was  too  well  trained  to 
permit  himself  on  any  occasion  the  impertinence  of 
surprise.  He  was  the  most  decorous  of  valets  to  the 
most  decorous  of  counts.  He  bowed  and  withdrew. 
At  the  end  of  four  minutes  he  was  back  with  the  men 
and  the  cords.  Had  his  master  told  him  to  fetch  four 
hangmen  and  four  halters,  he  would  have  done  his 
best  to  give  satisfaction. 

The  count  bade  his  servant  turn  the  key  in  the 
door. 

He  did  so. 

Edmond  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  his  bedstead. 
His  right  hand  was  closely  wound  about  one  of  the 
ponderous  pillars  of  twisted  oak  which  sustained  the 
ceiling  of  the  bed.  It  was  an  antique  bed,  richly 
carved  and  heavily  curtained. 


272  THE  PATIENT. 

The  face  of  Edmond  was  livid. 

"  Bind  me — quick — the  hands — the  feet — quick  1" 

These  words  came  broken,  one  by  one,  in  a  dry,  un 
natural  voice,  from  his  lips.  He  was  breathing  with 
difficulty. 

The  servants  stared  at  him,  stupefied,  speechless. 
He  did  not  speak  again  with  his  lips.  His  lips  were 
locked,  and  his  nostrils  inflated.  But  his  eyes  spoke 
fiercely — entreaty  growing  into  menace. 

Still  the  servants  hesitated. 

Then  the  bed  began  to  creak  and  crack. 

Suddenly  the  great  bedpost,  wrenched  from  its 
socket,  flew  up,  spun  round,  and  dashed  against  a 
large  plate-glass  mirror,  which  it  shivered  into  splint 
ers.  The  ceiling  of  the  bed  crashed  in,  and  fell  with 
a  loud  noise. 

The  dike  was  broken. 

And  the  hideous  overflow,  no  longer  restrained  or 
impeded,  surged  and  seethed  into  every  limb  swollen 
with  the  strength  of  a  giant. 

It  was  only  after  long  and  furious  struggle  that 
those  four- athletes  were  able  to  subdue  the  madman. 
At  last  they  bound  his  limbs  with  cords,  and  laid  him 
on  his  bed,  panting,  exhausted,  senseless. 

Before  leaving  the  chamber,  the  count's  valet,  who 
had  not  lost  his  presence  of  mind  for  a  moment,  im 
posed  upon  his  four  astonished  subordinates  the  most 
solemn  pledges  of  secrecy  as  to  all  that  had  happened. 
The  count's  apartments  occupied  the  farthest  por 
tion  of  the  least  frequented  wing  of  the  quadrangle. 
Across  the  locked  double  doors  no  sound  could  have 
escaped  to  the  other  parts  of  the  house.  The  valet 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  SEED.  273 

guessed  that  his  unfortunate  master,  in  his  ]ast  mo 
ment  of  lucidity,  must  have  counted  upon  this.    When 
he  had  exacted  secrecy  from  the  four  grooms,  he  left 
them  in  charge  of  the  count,  and  quitted  the  room. 
He  was  gone  to  look  for  the  countess. 
M2 


274  THE   PATIENT. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
JULIET  AFTER  THE  MARRIAGE. 

JULIET,  also,  had  retired  early  from  the  guest- 
chamber. 

Her  mind  was  absorbed  by  a  gentle  melancholy ; 
and,  taking  with  her  Theresa  by  the  hand,  she  sought 
for  relief  to  her  feelings  in  conversation  with  her 
friend. 

So  the  two  women  sat  together,  and  talked  on,  in 
low  tones,  to  each  other ;  Juliet  leaning  on  Theresa's 
bosom,  and  clasping  Theresa's  hand,  and  the  quiet 
sunlight  on  the  serious  faces  of  them  both. 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  dear  friend,"  Juliet  said  to  The 
resa,  "  I  have  well  weighed  the  weight  of  this  day,  and 
the  worth  of  it.  I  have  long  been  asking  myself 
whether  what  is  now  done  was  right  and  fit  for  me  to 
do,  and  I  have  convinced  myself  that  my  duty  lies 
here.  Do  I  not  owe  it  to  Felix  to  remain  by  him  that 
remains,  faithful  to  him  that  was  ever  faithful  and 
true;  him  that  Felix  loved  so  inexpressibly  —  him 
whose  life  has  been  so  strangely  saddened  by  the  loss 
of  that  beloved  brother?  This  is  what  was  in  my 
mind  this  morning.  I  wished  to  set  myself  clear  with 
my  own  heart ;  and  when  Edmond  met  me  with  such 
a  holy  calm  upon  his  noble  features,  I  blessed  God 
that  I  was  able  to  devote  to  him  all  my  remaining  life. 
But  tell  me,  my  Theresa,  tell  me,  you  who  know  all 


THE   FRUIT   OF  THE   SEED.  275 

my  heart  and  all  my  life,  whether  in  this  I  ought  to 
reproach  myself:  when  I  stood  just  now  before  the 
altar,  I  felt  separated  from  all  around  me,  and  my 
thoughts  were  of  Felix.  Again  I  seemed  to  hear 
those  unforgotten  words  which  he  said  to  me  in  that 
first  moment  when  our  eyes  were  suddenly  opened 
upon  each  other's  hearts.  Again  I  seemed  to  feel  his 
arm  about  me,  and  to  hear  his  voice, '  Never  now,  Ju 
liet,  can  I  leave  thee.  Here  or  there,  in  time  and  eternity, 
I  am  thine,  and  thou  art  mine.''*  When  the  priest 
blessed  our  union  my  feelings  were  strangely  sad, 
strangely  happy.  The  hand  of  Edmond,  when  he 
placed  it  in  my  own,  was  as  cold  as  a  dead  man's 
hand ;  but  at  the  touch  of  it  I  felt  my  whole  frame 
thrilled  by  a  sweet  sensation  which  I  had  not  felt  for 
years.  I  had  felt  it  first,  and  felt  it  only,  long  ago, 
when  I  used  to  walk  with  Felix  hand  in  hand.  I 
was  overpowered  by  these  recollections.  I  dropped 
my  eyes  toward  the  cold  hand  that  was  clasped  in 
mine,  and,  oh  Theresa  !  I  fancied  in  that  moment  that 
I  saw  there  my  lost  bridal  ring— rthe  ring  I  gave  to 
Felix,  the  ring  which  Edmond  had  given  to  me ;  but 
the  strange,  unintelligible  characters  of  it  moved  out 
of  the  visionary  stone  which  I  seemed  to  be  seeing, 
and  twined  themselves  about  in  sparkling  violet  light, 
like  little  fairy  snakes,  and  wandered  over  both  our 
hands  like  luminous  veins ;  and  the  veins  branched 
onward  and  upward  over  my  whole  being,  and  my 
life-blood  seemed  to  be  flowing  through  them,  and 
they  lighted  up  the  interior  of  my  soul.  Multitudes 

*  These  words  were  probably  recorded  in  the  missing  page  of  Ju 
liet's  letter,  p.  207. 


276  THE   PATIENT. 

of  fairy  rings  in  bright  succession,  and  by  the  last 
links  of  all  in  the  sparkling  spirit-chain  our  two  hearts 
seemed  united ;  for  in  that  moment's  dreaming  I 
dreamed  that  it  was  Felix  still  beside  me — still  the 
hand  of  Felix  that  held  mine.  Then,  when  thrilled 
with  a  faint,  strange  joy,  I  looked  up  in  my  husband's 
face,  I  noticed  with  what  deep  devotional  intensity  of 
gaze  Edmond  was  clasping  my  hand,  and  I  under 
stood,  then,  that  Edmond  was  become  one  with  Fel\x 
by  his  union  with  me,  and  that  thus  the  schism  of  my 
heart  was  healed,  and  all  was  reconciled  and  hal 
lowed." 

Juliet's  friend  smiled  at  these  dreamy  fancies.  And 
she  too  said  "All  is  well,  and  all  is  reconciled." 

Nor  was  there  need,  she  said,  of  any  fairy  snakes 
from  phantom  rings,  since  now,  in  a  new  and  earnest 
ly  accepted  duty,  the  true  links  had  been  found,  which 
also  should,  by  faithful  exercise  of  pure  and  whole 
some  feelings,  be  made  fast. 

So  Theresa  thought.  And  Juliet,  she  said,  should 
not  any  more  be  brooding  on  this  buried  past,  but 
must  now  exhort  and  encourage  her  own  true  heart 
to  seize  and  sanctify  the  sober  verities  of  this  daily 
human  life,  wherein  it  behooves  that  we  should  stand 
firm  upon  our  feet,  that  we  may  not  be  overcome  by 
the  gust  of  accident. 

At  that  moment  the  valet  of  Count  Edmond  en 
tered  the  room. 


THE   FKUIT  OF  THE  SEED.  277 


CHAPTER  IX. 
THE  FIELD  OF  BATTLE. 

THE  valet  had  not  been  able  so  completely  to  efface 
from  his  clothes  and  his  countenance  all  traces  of  the 
recent  struggle  but  what  the  two  women  were  alarm 
ed  by  his  appearance  the  moment  he  entered. 

They  both  rose  before  he  could  speak,  and  cried  in 
a  breath,  "  For  heaven's  sake  !  what  has  happened?'7 

"He  is  quite  calm,  and  he  sleeps,"  the  valet  said. 

And,  prudently  suppressing  all  details  of  the  scene 
he  had  just  witnessed,  he  hurriedly  explained  that  his 
master  had  been  seized  by  a  violent  attack  of  nervous 
fever.  He  had  already  sent  for  the  nearest  physician  ; 
and  he  conjured  the  countess  not  to  go  near  her  hus 
band  till  she  was  authorized  to  do  so  by  the  doctor, 
since,  in  the  first  stage  of  nervous  fever,  any  emotion 
might  prove  fatal  to  the  patient. 

Juliet  was  with  difficulty  persuaded  to  obey  this  in 
junction.  But  she  yielded  at  last  to  the  earnest  en 
treaties  of  Theresa. 

It  was  well  for  her  that  she  did  so. 

For  behind  the  doors  she  was  was  forbidden  to  en 
ter,  Horror  was  in  full  possession  of  his  own. 

Here  was  the  scene  of  the  count's  last  battle  and  ir 
retrievable  defeat.  The  strife  had  been  stupendous ; 
the  defeat  was  overwhelming.  Inch  by  inch,  with 
inflexible  patient  audacity,  the  man  who  there  lay 


278  THE  PATIENT. 

corpse-like,  crushed,  utterly  beaten  on  that  hideous 
battle-field,  had  usurped  his  own  liberties  in  conquer 
ing  one  by  one  the  antagonisms  of  his  own  nature. 
He  had  left  to  the  realms  of  his  spirit  no  law  but  the 
despotism  of  an  elaborate  tyranny.  He  had  succeed 
ed,  for  he  had  reigned.  On  every  part  of  his  being- 
he  had  imposed  his  power.  His  success  was  his  fail 
ure.  All  at  once,  and  all  together,  the  banded  forces 
he  had  long  enslaved  revolted  and  overwhelmed  the 
usurper. 

Napoleon  had  found  his  "Waterloo. 

The  field  of  battle  was  strewn  with  wreck  and  rav 
age.  Broken  furniture,  fractured  limbs  of  costly  chairs 
and  tables,  bruised  morsels  of  gilded  frames,  shards  of 
precious  porcelain,  shattered  mirrors,  horrible  splinters 
of  glass,  shreds  of  ripped  and  tattered  drapery,  were 
heaped  in  dreary  disorder  all  about  the  tumbled  room, 
and  over  the  soft  carpet,  in  whose  rich  pile  large 
earthy  footmarks  still  bore  witness  to  that  scuffle  of 
brute  strength  with  brute  strength. 

In  the  midst  of  this  miserable  litter,  his  clothes  torn, 
his  eyes  bright  with  dry  unmeaning  fire,  his  lips 
smeared  with  spume  and  blood,  bound  hand  and  foot, 
upon  his  broken  bed  lay  the  most  urbane  and  knight 
ly  noble  that  ever  justified  the  primeval  prerogatives 
of  aristocracy. 

And  around  him,  breathless,  pale,  with  blood-spots 
on  their  bruised  cheeks,  with  their  coarse  lips  cut  and 
smeared,  and  their  brawny  knuckles  red  and  raw, 
stood  his  conquerors — four  burly,  low-browed  sons  of 
the  stable  and  the  out-house. 

Theresa  had  quickly  interpreted  the  sidelong  sup- 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  SEED.         279 

plicating  glance  of  the  valet.  As  soon  as  she  could 
safely  leave  Juliet,  she  found  a  pretext  to  quit  the 
room  and  rejoin  the  servant,  who  was  waiting  in  the 
antechamber  to  conduct  her  to  the  count's  apartments. 
She  felt  herself  responsible  for  all  that  was  now  to  be 
done,  and  did  not  lose  her  presence  of  mind. 

She  ordered  the  servants  to  remove  the  broken  fur 
niture,  and  set  the  room  in  decent  order.  She  had 
thick  curtains  placed  over  the  windows.  She  in 
structed  the  valet  to  get  the  bed  put  together,  and  to 
cover  the  sick  man,  who  remained  bound  and  sense 
less. 

While  this  was  being  done,  she  descended  to  the 
guest-chamber,  and  excused  the  absence  of  the  count 
on  the  ground  that  his  wife  was  slightly  indisposed. 
This,  as  she  had  anticipated,  induced  the  wedding 
party  to  break  up  and  withdraw.  When  the  house 
was  empty,  and  the  last  coach-wheels  ceased  to  grate 
the  gravel  at  the  gates,  she  returned  to  Juliet. 

" Thy  cares  come  early,  my  poor  Juliet!"  she  said ; 
"but  sooner  or  later  care  must  come,  and  we  must  do 
our  best  to  bear  it." 

Without  giving  her  time  to  reply  or  give  way  to 
alarm,  she  began  to  prepare  her  friend  for  the  per 
formance  of  the  duties  which  might  now  be  required 
of  her. 

Meanwhile  the  doctor  arrived.  He  questioned  the 
witnesses  of  Edmond's  attack,  had  a  long  secret  con 
versation  with  Theresa,  examined  the  patient  care 
fully,  and  declared  that  the  count's  strength  was  com 
pletely  exhausted,  and  that  for  the  moment  no  new 
outbreak  of  dementia  was  to  be  feared. 


280  THE  PATIENT. 

He  declared  that  he  would  himself  pass  the  first 
night  by  the  side  of  his  patient.  He  permitted  no 
one  to  approach  the  count,  who  was  still  insensible. 

Then  he  unbound  the  cords.  Edmond's  long  dark 
locks  fell  fast  beneath  the  scissors  of  the  doctor's  as 
sistant,  and  compresses  of  ice  were  placed  upon  his 
burning  brow. 


THE   FRUIT  OF  THE  SEED.       -  281 


CHAPTEK  X. 
HUSBAND  AND  WIFE. 

THUS  lay  Edmond  many  days,  alternately  watched 
by  the  doctor  and  his  assistant,  till  .such  time  as  the 
malady  should  promise  to  take  a  more  regular  course, 
and  the  duty  of  attending  to  her  husband  could  be 
safely  intrusted  to  the  countess. 

In  one  of  the  adjoining  rooms  she  had  established 
herself.  She  knew  that  she  was  not  likely  to  leave  it 
for  many  weeks ;  she  made  her  arrangements  accord 
ingly.  The  door  between  Edmond's  chamber  and 
her  own  she  had  softly  taken  out  and  replaced  by 
porttires  with  heavy  curtains. 

All  the  windows  of  her  apartment  she  had  masked 
and  covered  in  the  same  way. 

From  the  dull  red  flame  in  the  ground-glass  globe 
of  a  lamp  suspended  from  the  ceiling  passed  the  only 
light  that  visited  that  prison,  freely  chosen  by  the 
solitary  inmate  of  it.  If  the  gloorn  of  external  ob 
jects  can  add  weight  to  the  dejection  of  a  brain  al 
ready  oppressed  by  anxious  thoughts,  heavy  indeed 
must  have  been  the  young  fair  forehead  on  which 
that  weary  lamp-light  shone  in  the  long  monotonous 
hours  of  Juliet's  faithful  vigil. 

But  here,  in  those  sleepless  watchings  by  the  heavy 
dreadful  curtain,  which  her  hand  daily  ventured  near 
er  to,  and  little  by  little  timidly  withdrew— here,  at 


282  THE   PATIENT. 

last,  from  fires  long  hidden,  another  light,  a  light  more 
ghastly,  more  lugubrious,  entered  into  her  soul,  and 
lighted  up  the  past,  the  present,  the  future,  all  things, 
with  its  cold  funereal  glare. 

In  the  livid  reflex  of  that  hideous  revelation  sunk 
and  ceased  forever  the  humid  splendors  of  those  once 
soft  and  spiritual  eyes,  whose  desolate,  cold,  unswerv 
ing  regard  had  so  strangely  thrilled  me  when  I  first 
beheld  them  years  ago. 

The  light  pure  blood,  whose  innocent  pulses  once 
so  swiftly  moved  in  every  virgin  vein  of  that  fair 
body,  a  few  broken  words  sufficed  to  stagnate  forever 
in  a  heart  congealed. 

A  few  broken  words — an  unconscious  utterance — 
an  involuntary  confession — dropped  by  frenzy  from 
the  lips  of  a  maniac! 

But  those  words  unveiled  the  head  of  Medusa,  and 
the  woman  that  gazed  on  the  thing  they  revealed  be 
came  forthwith  a  statue. 

Such  I  had  seen  her.     I  shall  never  forget  it. 

And  so,  one  morning,  when  Edmond,  awaking  re 
freshed  from  his  first  peaceful  slumber,  recovered  the 
consciousness  of  his  own  identity — when,  still  weak, 
but  aware,  he  was  able  to  take  notice  of  the  things 
around  him,  and,  with  a  sick  man's  languid  sense  of 
returning  life,  he  lifted  looks  of  grateful  recognition 
to  the  face  of  his  wife  watching  beside  him,  that  face 
was  as  the  face  of  the  Judgment  Angel. 

"Why  didst  thou  not  stretch  forth  thy  hand  to 
Felix?" 

These  words  were  spoken  slowly,  in  a  voice  almost 
inaudible,  but  they  were  terribly  distinct. 


THE   FKUIT  OF  THE   SEED.  283 

She  knew  all. 

And  when  he  heard  those  words  and  saw  that  face, 
lie  too  knew  all. 

In  the  look  of  deadly  inexorable  doom  which  ac 
companied  that  searching  question,  he  recognized  the 
reflex  of  his  own  soul. 

He  understood  that  the  traitorous  secret,  which  he 
had  so  long  immured  in  his  inmost  heart,  had  escaped 
from  a  breast  no  longer  guarded,  and  the  voice  that 
now  audibly  accused  him  was  the  voice  of  his  own 
conscience. 

Before  him  stood  his  crime. 

Not  the  rash  act  of  man  overborne  by  passion,  in 
which  man's  will  and  mind  have  no  part.  Slave  of 
Passion  he  had  never  been,  but  slave  of  the  Thinking 
Power. 

Only  in  the  act  of  his  mind  was  his  crime.  A 
demon  thought. 


284  THE   PATIENT. 


CHAPTER  XL 

CAUSE  AND  EFFECT. 

IN  the  evening  of  the  day  when  Juliet  and  Felix 
first  revealed  their  hearts  to  each  other,  they  paused 
on  their  homeward  path  by  the  outskirts  of  the  forest. 

Juliet  heard  a  moan  in  the  underwood. 

It  was  Edmond's. 

Felix,  too,  heard  something  stir  in  the  bushes. 

It  was  Edmond's  footstep. 

He  had  been  urged  back  to  the  chateau  by  that  in 
explicable  inquietude  which  precedes  the  outbreak  of 
passion,  like  the  fume  which  rises  before  the  flame 
leaps  forth. 

What  passed  within  him  then,  and  all  that  happen 
ed  immediately  afterward,  we  know. 

Accustomed  to  coop  and  mew  himself  up  within 
the  strict  inclosure  of  his  own  mind  for  .single  and 
mortal  combat  with  the  new  and  boisterous  power 
that  was  then  assailing  him,  he  summoned  all  his 
pride  in  aid  of  a  supreme  effort  to  hide,  at  least,  from 
every  eye  the  desperate  struggle  from  which  he  could 
no  longer  withdraw  his  spirit. 

We  also  know  that  in  this,  unhappily  for  himself, 
lie  succeeded  only  too  well. 

It  was  with  this  object  that  he  announced  his  in 
tended  alliance  with  the  Eosenberg  heiress.  For  a 
moment,  perhaps,  he  seriously  entertained  that  inten 
tion. 


THE   FRUIT   OF   THE   SEED.  285 

"  Yet  another  year  of  struggle,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"  and  I  shall  have  mastered  this  mad  passion  which 
has  its  roots  in  the  error  of  a  whole  life." 

But  ever  before  his  eyes  imprudently  played  and 
sported  the .  heedless  happy  pair  to  whom  was  given 
that  Paradise  from  which  he  was  banished.  They 
were  indifferent  to,  because  ignorant  of,  the  intense 
torture  that  was  devouring  his  heart.  There  was 
none  to  see  how  he  suffered :  no  gratitude,  no  tender 
ness,  no  pity,  for  his  unguessed  pain. 

Not  one,  of  those  for  whom  they  were  endured,  di 
vined  or  recognized  the  thousand  silent  sacrifices 
which  daily  he  imposed  upon  himself. 

He  would  have  undertaken  and  overcome  yet  great 
er  difficulties  in  order  to  hide  these  numberless,  name 
less  abnegations  fr,om  mistrustful  or  suspicious  eyes. 

He  honestly  wished  to  hide-  them. 

But  those  from  whom  he  sought  to  hide  them  were 
so  lightly,  easily  cheated;  they  took  so  readily  for 
granted  the  utter  absence  of  all  that  torment  which 
he  was  at  pains  to  conceal;  they  believed  him  so 
promptly,  so  implicitly,  that  he  was  exasperated  by 
his  own  success. 

And  no  ebullition,  no  escape  in  word,  or  look,  or 
act,  relieved  this  intolerable  anguish. 

From  his  earliest  years  he  had  brought,  with  mathe- 
matic  precision,  his  voice,  his  manners,  even  the  lines 
of  his  face,  into  a  harmony  undisturbed  by  expression. 

And  this,  which  had  once  been  natural  to  him,  he 
was  now  obliged  to  continue  by  imitation  as  a  part  to 
be  played.  He  was  constrained  to  be  the  actor  of  his 
former  self. 


286  THE   PATIENT. 

His  whole  being,  therefore,  became  to  him  a  mask. 
Under  this  mask  he  was  smothering,  but  he  could  not 
take  it  off. 

Too  soon  in  life  his  sensations  and  feelings  had  been 
forced  into  those  directions  upon  which  Youth  joy 
ously  turns  its  back.  He  had  reversed  the  order 
which  the  course  of  nature  assigns  to  the  life  of  man. 

Even  as  a  boy  his  affections  had  a  sort  of  paternal 
character.  These  fatherly  feelings  in  a  child,  the 
sense  of  superiority  which  they  implied,  and  the  habit 
of  an  authority  which  was  almost  thrust  upon  him  by 
the  instinctive  and  spontaneous  submission  of  those 
about  him,  were  experiences  which,  however  pure 
they  were,  and  noble  in  themselves,  he  attained  to  the 
knowledge  of  too  soon. 

He  had  overleaped  those  stages  in  a  man's  life 
which  are  perhaps  perilous  to  traverse,  but  which  can 
not  be  left  out  nor  avoided  with  impunity. 

That  is  the  "  Sturm  und  Drang"  period — the  season 
of  storms. 

The  purifying  fire  of  Passion  ennobles  the  ardors 
of  Youth,  and  only  finds  in  youth  the  place  to  which 
it  is  native  and  inborn.  In  youth  Desire  can  claim 
by  right  and  title  its  natural  and  legitimate  satisfac 
tion.  It  finds  its  excuse  in  the  coercive  force  of  that 
necessary  law  which  coincides  with  liberty :  the  law 
of  the  life  of  the  creature,  according  to  which  it  is 
bound  to  live.  Passion,  at  that  period,  lightly  evap 
orates  in  the  fume  of  its  own  joyous  intoxication,  and 
does  not  deposit  at  the  bottom  of  the  soul  the  bitter 
residue  of  repentance. 

Man  shares  the  world  with  all  created  things  on 


THE   FRUIT  OF  THE   SEED.  287 

equal  terms.  Those  requirements  which  are  univer 
sal  to  his  nature  and  his  age,  each  is  authorized  to 
satisfy.  And,  even  in  its  errors  and  its  heats,  Youth 
pays  tribute  to  the  divine  government  of  Nature. 
Then  the  life  of  a  man  is  in  the  privileged  enjoyment 
of  its  full  rights.  Even  as,  by  the  nature  of  it,  it  is 
compelled  to  give,  so  is  it  authorized  to  take.  And 
if,  at  that  time,  the  breath  of  error  should  obscure 
with  its  light  and  fleeting  cloud  the  clear  mirror  of 
the  soul's  purity,  remorse  at  least  is  without  bitter 
ness,  and  even  pain  caresses  where  it  wounds.  For 
then  the  great  horizons  of  life  are  opened  round  on 
every  side,  wherethrough  the  spirit  bloweth  as  it 
listeth;  and  to  the  sorrow  and  the  wrong  which,  in 
after  life  lie  close,  staining  and  rotting  where  they 
cling,  then  the  lightest  passing  wind  gives  wings,  and 
they  are  carried  away  upon  the  summer  cloud,  and 
melted  into  the  summer  rain. 

It  is  otherwise  with  the  man  who  has  reversed,  in 
the  arrangement  of  his  life,  this  wholesome  order  of 
things,  and  undertaken  to  carry  loads  which,  dispro- 
portioned  to  the  natural  strength  of  his  shoulders,  he 
can  only  sustain  the  weight  of  by  ascetic  severity  of 
mind.  The  man  who  does  this,  like  Angelo, 

"Most  ignorant  of  what  he's  most  assured, 
His  glassy  essence," 

exaggerates  the  worth  of  the  life  he  has  lived — mis 
takes  the  nature  and  the  value  of  it,  and  forgets  that 
prudence  is  not  yet  virtue. 

When  Edmond  buried  his  youth  prematurely  under 
the  load  of  responsibility  assumed  in  taking  fatherly 


288  THE   PATIENT. 

charge  of  the  youth  of  those  two  children,  Juliet  and 
Felix,  the  too-early  exercise  of  an  authority,  accorded 
before  it  could  be  claimed,  allured  his  mind  into  a 
fatal  conviction  of  the  infallibility  of  its  own  judg 
ment. 

He  contemplated  life  too  coolly,  and  too  partially 
because  too  strictly,  since  human  life,  which  is  merely 
a  mass  of  incongruous  materials  to  be  wrought  and 
welded  into  shape  by  the  violent  tact  of  warring  an 
tagonisms,  can  not  be  prearranged  into  symmetrical 
system  except  by  ignoring  and  excluding  whatever 
will  not  fit  into  mathematical  form.  Edmond  under 
rated  the  difficulties  of  life  so  long  as  his  own  veins 
remained  ungoaded  by  the  promptings  of  the  blood, 
of  which  the  natural  savagery  in  every  man  was  to 
him  unknown.  And  thus  the  disturbing  element, 
which  he  had  neglected  to  take  into  account,  ended 
by  bursting  every  barrier,  and  sweeping  all  before  it. 

Then  began  for  him  (all  the  preceding  extracts  from 
his  writings  prove  it)  a  series  of  internal  conflicts  in 
which  those  intellectual  weapons,  whereon  his  reliance 
was  placed,  fell  shivered  one  by  one  against  the  obtuse 
enormous  fact  of  an  incomprehensible  passion. 

Forced  to  search  in  ever  deeper  and  remoter  re 
cesses  of  that  intellectual  arsenal  for  the  sophisms  that 
supplied  him  with  the  means  of  warfare,  he  ended 
(when  pushed  to  the  last  extremity)  by  cowering  for 
shelter  behind  the  bulwarks  of  a  barren  Fatalism. 
Nor  did  he  perceive  that  he  had  squandered  the  most 
precious  materials  of  his  soul  in  the  construction  of  a 
mere  dead  wall. 

By  the  ring  of  Amasis,  which  was  already  firmly 


THE   FKUIT   OF  THE   SEED.  289 

forged  about  his  destiny,  the  motive  power  of  his 
being  was  cabled  to  Superstition,  that  last  anchor  of 
the  man  without  Faith.  The  real  or  supposed  sig 
nification  of  the  antique  inscription  began  to  flatter 
and  caress  the  natural  tendencies  of  his  mind  in  pro 
portion  as  the  wholesome  development  of  Desire  be 
came  more  and  more  obstructed  by  Circumstance. 
Hemmed  round  by  perils  of  which  his  rising  passion 
forewarned  him  with  menace  at  every  moment,  and 
conscious  that  to  wish  is  to  be  weak,  he  sought,  in 
his  dealings  with  Circumstance,  to  annihilate  tempta 
tion  by  canceling  the  initiative  prerogative  of  Will. 

Thus  he  resigned  the  highest  and  most  necessary 
privilege  of  a  reasonable  being  in  suppressing  the  ex 
ercise  of  that  faculty  which  is  not  determined  nor  con 
trolled  by  sensuous  objects,  but  which,  by  virtue  of  an 
origin  directly  divine,  subjugates  these,  and  Nature 
herself,  to  its  own  action,  and  is  therefore,  in  its  high 
est  development,  as  holy  liberty,  continually  tending 
toward  absolute  good.  This  noble  activity  he  fore 
went,  to  watch  with  folded  arms  the  tricksy  turn  of  a 
blind  Chance. 

To  him,  therefore,  the  world  of  hopes  and  fears,  in 
which  souls  are  saved  and  lost,  became  a  jumbled  coil 
of  crazy  circumstance.  Whatever  might  be  imposed 
upon  him  by  the  Fate  that  ruled  this  dizzy  planet  of 
his  own  invention,  he  was  resolved  to  bear  unflinch 
ing.  But  he  was  equally  decided  not  to  repel  nor  re 
ject  the  golden  gift,  whenever  that  fickle  Power  might 
chance  to  fling  into  his  open  hand  the  thing  he  dared 
not  purchase  at  the  too  great  price  of  a  crime,  but 
which  he  had  courage  to  contemplate  in  the  alluring 

N 


290  THE   PATIENT. 

imagery  of  a  dream,  with  a  passionate  longing  to  pos 
sess  it. 

He  was  under  the  dominion  of  this  state  of  mind 
when  his  brother  engaged  him  to  join  the  shooting 
expedition  down  the  river  on  that  fatal  fourteenth  day 
of  September. 

He  went  unwillingly,  haunted  by  bad  forebodings ; 
and,  as  if  every  thing  was  in  conspiracy  against  him, 
Felix,  on  that  morning,  was  in  a  bantering,  aggressive 
humor. 

In  proportion  as  Edmond  wTas  unusually  sombre 
and  thoughtful,  Felix,  full  of  the  insolence  of  unusual- 
ly  high  spirits,  unconsciously  did  every  thing  that  the 
most  malignant  forethought  could  have  devised  to 
irritate,  exasperate,  and  madden  his  brother's  bitter 
mood. 

At  every  moment,  seeing  Edmond  so  silent  and  so 
sad,  he  would  ask  him  if  his  thoughts  were  not  with 
his  Rosenberg  heiress,  his  prudently-selected  bride? 
Then,  getting  astride  upon  the  bulwarks  of  the  boat, 
and  rocking  it  from  side  to  side  with  an  aggravating 
silly  restlessness,  ""What  fun,"  said  he,  "to  think  of 
the  rage  of  all  the  lawyers,  when,  with  the  money 
saved  from  their  clutches,  you  buy  your  future  count 
ess  her  precious  tiara  of  diamonds !  Anyhow,  it  will 
not  be  as  fine  as  this,  my  good  fellow!"  And  he 
flashed  the  sparkling  amethyst  in  the  sun's  bright 
rays.  "  No ;  not  for  all  the  gold  in  the  world  will 
you  match  me  the  worth  of  this !" 

"Beware!  beware!" 

In  Edmond's  heart  an  inward  voice  was  calling. 

Felix  grew  gayer  and  gayer;  Edmond  ever  colder, 
more  monosyllabic,  sullen,  taciturn. 


THE   FKUIT   OF   THE   SEED.  291 

Iii  presence  of  the  keeper's  boy  (as  we  know),  he 
had  warned  his  brother  of  his  imprudence,  and  re 
peatedly  besought  him  to  sit  still.  But  the  lad  had 
left  the  boat. 

They  were  alone,  those  two  brothers. 

Above  them,  on  either  side,  the  high  banks,  soli 
tary.  Beneath  them,  the  deep  and  rapid  stream. 

And  gliding,  gliding,  as  Life  glides  neighboring 
Death,  the  ever-present  chance,  through  changing  sun 
and  shade  upon  the  treacherous  surface  of  that  stream, 
Felix,  the  happy  butterfly,  fluttering  his  careless  wings, 
and  Edmond,  the  brooding  melancholy  thinker,  sul 
lenly  strangling  in  his  own  breast  the  moan  of  a 
bruised  and  breaking  heart. 

"I  swear,  brother,  you  are  insupportable  to-day," 
says  Felix.  "  But  I'll  bet  you  that  at  least  I'll  fright 
en  you,  if  I  can't  make  you  merry.  Houp  la!" 

And  he  began  to  rock  the  boat  more  violently. 

Edmond  was  silent.  He  sat  still  and  made  no  an 
swer.  But  within  his  inmost  being  a  strange  new  life 
began  to  move.  As  once  before,  in  the  first  fierce 
moment  of  his  great  despair,  at  midnight  in  the  forest 
by  the  river-side,  he  had  heard  them  mutter  as  they 
moved,  so  now  again  he  heard  strange  voices  speak 
ing  in  the  water.  And  they  hissed,  and  lisped,  and 
laughed  from  little  wicked  lips, 

"  Get  us  the  ring!     We  are  here  again. 
Ho,  Brother  !      Who  will  be  Bridegroom  then  ? " 

An  unequal  pressure  with  one  foot  turned  the  prow 
of  the  boat  sharply  and  suddenly  against  the  current. 
The  boat  reeled  and  dipped  to  that  side.  Felix  lost 
his  balance,  staggered,  slipped,  fell,  disappeared. 


292  THE   PATIENT. 

Anon  he  rose  to  the  surface. 

His  fall  had  given  impulse  to  the  boat.  He  rose  in 
the  wake  of  it.  Striking  out  with  all  his  strength,  he 
tried  to  reach  it.  It  was  still  before  him,  floating  fast 
upon  the  rapid  stream. 

No  hand  was  moved,  no  oar  was  stretched  from 
that  gliding  bark. 

Against  the  whirling  water  he  beat,  fast  and  weak, 
with  desperate  arms.  His  soaked  clothes  and  heavy 
boots  were  dragging  him  down.  The  light  boat  glided 
on. 

Suffocating  and  exhausted,  he 'gasped,  "Enough, 
Edmond!  For  Heaven's  sake,  enough!  I  am  suffi 
ciently  punished.  My  strength  gives  way.  I  am 
sinking.  I  can  no  more." 

Before  the  eyes  of  Edmond,  in  that  moment,  rose 
a  long-remembered  Image.  Forms  that  for  many  a 
clay  and  hour  had  floated  in  his  fancy,  following  his 
thoughts,  suddenly  passed  from  the  inward  to  the  out 
ward  world,  and  in  substance  palpable  appeared  be 
fore  him,  clothed  with  hideous  life. 

He  knew  them  well,  those  forms  no  more  of  Fancy's 
making.  No  new-comers  they,  but  of  an  ancient  date ; 
coeval  with  the  crime  of  hoary  centuries,  whose  guilty 
conscience  slept  not  quiet  in  the  grave.  He  had  dis 
interred  them  from  the  depth  of  ages  with  the  dark 
ness  on  them ;  he  had  released  them  from  their  wick 
ed  hiding-places  in  the  tombs  of  Theban  kings ;  he 
had  planted  them  in  the  prospect  of  his  eye ;  he  had 
shrined  them  in  the  silent  places  of  his  soul — idols  of 
a  drear  religion,  worshiped  with  the  devil  worship  of 
despair. 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  SEED.  293 

And  for  many  a  day  and  hour  they  had  stood  be 
tween  the  seeing  of  his  eye  and  the  displaced  shape 
of  wholesome  human  life,  so  that  looking  on  them 
now,  he  saw  them  only.  Not  himself,  not  Felix,  the 
brother  of  his  flesh  and  blood,  but  phantoms,  ghosts 
—  Sethos  the  realmless  prince,  immovable,  before 
Amasis  the  usurper,  sinking  to  his  sudden  end.  Cold 
as  the  spectre  of  his  own  thought,  erect,  unmoved,  im 
movable,  with  folded  arms  he  stood  and  looked — 

Looked  on  his  drowning  brother. 

Then  into  the  eyes  and  over  the  face  of  Felix  there 
came  an  undefinable  terror. 

It  was  not  the  terror  of  death.  It  was  not  the 
vague  alarm  of  a  drowning  man. 

He  had  understood  the  face  of  his  brother  Edmond. 

He  had  read  in  that  face  the  meaning  of  a  thought 
which  sufficed  in  a  second  of  time  to  congeal  with  hor 
ror  the  essence  of  his  soul. 

And  Felix  shuddered. 

So  the  angels  must  shudder  when  they  gaze  into 
the  depths  of  Hell. 

With  a  voice  that  was  the  death-shriek  of  man's 
faith  in  man,  he  cried,  "  Edmond !  Edmond !" 

It  was  the  sad  receding  message  from  a  world  of 
love  submerged. 

Side  by  side,  the  fleeting  river  bore  them  on,  those 
brothers. 

The  one  safe,  unmoved,  erect. 

The  other  convulsively  struggling  with  baffled  and 
broken  efforts  amid  the  thousand  curling,  cold,  and 
silvery  meshes  of  that  liquid  loom  of  death. 

Side  by  side,  the  river  bore  them  onward  yet.     Side 


294  THE   PATIENT. 

by  side,  eye  fixed  on  eye,  with  speechless  lips  and 
speaking  looks. 

A  dreadful  inalterable  dialogue  was  passing  then 
between  the  eyes  of  those  two  brothers.  They  un 
derstood  each  other. 

And  the  place,  too,  was  so  wickedly  silent  all  this 
while — so  horribly  aware.  Had  it  sent  but  a  single 
human  sound  from  the  careless  innocent  life  it  was 
keeping  out  of  sight — nay,  not  so  much !  had  it  bid 
but  a  wild  bird  hoot  to  stop  the  deadly  duel  of  those 
dreadful  eyes !  But  no,  it  held  its  peace. 

At  length,  as  in  an  agony  of  supplication,  these  last 
words  broke  from  the  lips  of  the  sinking  swimmer : 

aln  the  name  of  the  All-merciful  God,  save  thine 
immortal  soul!  Brother,  brother,  stretch  forth  thy 
hand !" 

An  arm's  length  from  the  boat  he  sank  exhausted. 
Sinking,  his  long  brown  wavy  hair  spread  out — a  hid 
eous  dusky  thing  —  faint  seen  an  inch  beneath  the 
glassy  surface.  Like  a  tuft  of  heaving  water-weeds, 
it  rose  and  fell  with  the  rising  and  the  falling  of  the 
rippled  waters. 

The  stretched  right  arm  and  imploring  hand  still 
rose  above  the  surface. 

Involuntarily  Edmond  leaned  forward  to  seize  and 
grasp  it.  He  had  but  to  stretch  forth  his  hand,  and 
his  brother  might  yet  be  snatched  from  destruction. 

A  heedless  sunbeam  grazed  the  glittering  jewel 
upon  the  right  hand  of  the  drowning  man,  and  flashed 
a  violet  light  into  the  eyes  of  Edmond.  A  voice  with 
in  his  heart  called  to  him, 

11  Touch  not  with  earthly  finger  the  work  of  Fate" 


THE  FRUIT  OF  THE  SEED.         295 

He  shrank  back. 

The  hand  of  Felix  had  disappeared. 

Again  it  rose, 

And  disappeared  again. 

Once  more,  and  never  more  again,  it  reappeared 
above  the  water ;  not  as  before — not  supplicating  now, 
but  rigid,  and  stiffened  by  the  agony  of  death ;  held 
up  to  heaven  high  and  stark,  and  as  in  menace,  not  in 
prayer,  for  the  death-cramp  had  clasped  the  fingers 
and  locked  the  fist.  A  formidable  sight. 

It  sank  and  rose  no  more. 

How  long  sat  Edmond  with  fixed  eyes,  stupidly 
staring  at  the  glassy  murtherous  water,  that  sleek  ac 
complice  of  his  soul's  bad  angel  ? 

The  distant  barking  of  a  dog  beyond  the  banks 
aroused  him. 

He  started,  horror-struck,  as  from  a  dreadful  dream. 
He  looked  around  in  coldest  agony  of  remorse  and 
terror.  He  was  alone.  His  dream  grinned  at  him 
with  the  leaden  eyes  of  reality. 

With  a  shrill  wail  he  sprang  up,  and  plunged  head 
foremost  into  the  stream. 


296  THE   PATIENT. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

/ 

LEX  TALIONIS. 

AND  Juliet  never  pardoned  Edmond. 

Love,  perhaps,  may  survive  Esteem,  for  the  cause 
of  love  is  in  itself.  It  is,  and  knows  not  why.  But 
Juliet  had  not  loved  Edmond ;  she  had  worshiped 
him.  He  had  committed  sacrilege  against  himself. 
The  God  we  have  knelt  to  can  never  kneel  to  us  with 
impunity.  The  weakest  woman  is  pitiless  to  weak 
ness  in  a  man,  and  the  gentlest  of  a  gentle  sex  has  no 
mitigation  of  scorn  for  the  man  that  has  betrayed  the 
gentlest  quality  of  her  nature — implicit  trust. 

There  is  no  pardon  for  desecrated  ideals. 


THE   FRUIT  OF  THE  SEED.  297 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
THE  LAST  TRIBUNAL. 

I  HAD  ceased  reading.  I  had  ended  the  perusal  of 
the  count's  papers.  The  night  was  far  spent.  The 
hours  passed  unnoticed.  The  pages  still  lay  in  my 
hand.  The  knowledge  of  their  story  still  weighed 
heavy  on  my  mind. 

Horror  and  compassion  contended  within  me,  dis 
puting  in  my  thoughts  the  sentence  of  a  human  soul, 
as  though  it  were  the  Judgment  Hour. 

"  No  !"  I  cried  at  last. 

"No  pity  for  the  pitiless!  No  mercy  for  the  un 
merciful  !" 

When  the  assassin  turns  the  knife  in  the  breast  of 
his  victim  in  the  moment  when  spume  is  on  the  lips, 
and  blood  is  in  the  eyes  of  the  dying  man,  he  acts  per 
haps  with  pity,  willing  to  bring  to  speedier  end  those 
lingering  pangs. 

The  man  who  first  devised  the  diabolical  machinery 
of  torture,  and  took  fierce  pleasure  gloating  on  the 
shrieks  of  some  tormented  wretch,  sought  thus  per 
haps  to  slake  the  thirst  of  a  burning  vengeance,  or 
else  he  was  a  savage,  bom  with  the  natural  wildness 
of  an  untamed  brute,  and  used  to  bloody  business. 

But  this  man  ? 

By  so  much  the  more  nobly  natured,  the  more  deep 
ly  damned;  for  in  him,  all  large  and  lofty  powers, 
N2 


298  THE   PATIENT. 

combined,  augmented  the  greatness  of  his  crime  by 
the  sum  of  his  virtues. 

Ah !  didst  thou  think  to  find  an  error  in  the  calcu 
lation  of  Eternal  Justice  ? 

Bungler! 

Ah!  didst  thou  dream  that  good  undone  was  no 
great  evil  done  ?  That  no  misdeed  was  in  thy  good 
deed  missed? 

Fool! 

Fool,  to  forget  that  Will  can  only  be  annihilated  by 
"Will ;  that  good  unwilled  is  evil  willed.  Triple  fool 
and  slave,  that  didst  sell  thyself  to  Time  and  Chance, 
yet  couldst  not  win  the  wages  of  an  hour ! 

Knewest  thou  not  that  a  moment  is  master  of  a 
life  ?  for  it  is  but  for  a  moment  that  the  materials  of 
a  man  catch  fire,  burn  up,  and  show  what  he  is  made 
of.  Nay,  life's  self  is  nothing  more  than  so  much 
stuff  to  feed  that  moment's  fire. 

The  Eecording  Angel  is  no  scribe.  He  does  but 
keep  the  registers  we  write  ourselves,  and  the  hand 
that  signs  the  Judgment  Eecord  is  man's  own. 

Pardon  ? 

Yes,  for  another.     For  any  other,  yes. 

For  this  man,  none. 

So  I  spake  in  counsel  with  myself,  and  ended  stern 
upon  the  law. 

Then  a  soft  hand  pressed  back  my  brow,  a  loving 
arm  was  wound  about  my  neck,  and  a  dear  and  well- 
known  voice  said  to  me  in  a  tone  of  tender  reproach, 

"Dear  heart,  again  you  have  passed  a  whole  night 
long  unsleeping ;  and  yet  how  often  have  you  said, 
yourself,  that  the  night  is  no  man's  friend !" 


THE   FEUIT  OF  THE  SEED.  299 

"An  angel  has  spoken  out,"  I  cried,  with  a  touch 
of  self-accusal,  as  I  pressed  my  wife  to  my  arms. 

No,  night  is  not  the  friend  of  man.  And  the  in 
humanities  which  night  had  whispered  began  to  be 
silenced  in  my  heart  as  I  watched,  enlarging  on  the 
pallid  pane,  the  light  that  comes  to  all  when  "  He 
maketh  his  sun  to  rise  upon  the  unjust  and  the  just." 

"Put  the  horses  to  at  once,"  I  said  to  the  servant, 
who  was  half  asleep  when  he  answered  my  bell. 

"  Dear,  you  are  going  out,  and  yet  the  day  has  hard 
ly  risen.  Let  the  sleepers  sleep,  and  take,  thyself,  the 
rest  thou  needest." 

"No,"  I  said;  "from  him  I  seek,  rest  has  long 
since  fled.  But  I  go  to  bring  it  back  to  him,  else  I 
am  not  worthy  to  call  myself  a  Physician." 

And  I  went. 

How  describe  to  you  my  meeting  with  that  un 
happy  man?  I  was  unable  to  utter  a  word.  But  I 
opened  my  arms  wide,  wide,  and  he  fell  upon  my 
breast. 

So  leaned  he,  and  so  wept  he,  long — bitterly,  bit 
terly  weeping.  A  poor  broken  ruin  of  a  man. 

But  when  the  hard  and  indurated  anguish  of  long 
years  began  to  melt  in  showers  of  hot  tears,  there 
burst  with  a  convulsive  sob  from  the  long-pent,  hope 
less  yearning  of  a  wretched  human  heart  this  single 
indescribably  sorrowful  word, 

"At  last!" 

Long  in  my  arms  he  lay.  It  was  a  long  miich- 
needed  luxury  of  deep-desired  relief.  Into  the  hol 
low  places  of  his  heart  trickled  the  kind  refreshment 
— the  blessed  dews  of  human  pity,  and  once  again  he 


300  THE   PATIENT. 

felt  his  long-lost  brotherhood  with  man  in  the  deep 
compassion  of  a  fellow-creature. 

At  last! 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  at  last,  poor  spirit !  for  lasting  is  no 
human  sorrow ;  and  eternal  only,  and  without  limit,  is 
the  love  of  the  Great  Father  of  us  all,  who  has  a  pity 
for  each  human  pang,  a  pardon  for  each  penitent  soul." 

The  days  that  followed  this  had  silent  voices.  Let 
mine  be  silent  too.  I  will  not  babble  the  daily  diag 
nosis  of  that  weary  spirit's  slow  successive  fadings 
from  the  verge  of  a  life  long  forfeit  to  the  grave,  nor 
of  the  brightening,  beautifying  ardors  of  it  toward  the 
sunrise  slowly  seen  in  the  hope  of  a  life  redeemed. 

At  last  it  came — the  year's  last  hour  and  his  life's. 
The  year  was  in  its  end ;  the  world  was  in  its  winter ; 
the  night  was  spent  beyond  the  middle  hour.  Dark 
and  drear,  with  gusty  footsteps  on  the  slumbrous  snow, 
the  Old  Year  went,  the  New  Year  came. 

In  the  night  of  St.  Sylvester,  the  night  that  melted 
in  the  sunrise  of  the  Year  1842, 1  sat  by  the  death 
bed  of  Count  Edmond  E—  — . 

All  the  secret  folds  of  that  nature  native  to  nobility, 
which,  exhausting  itself  in  the  life-long  struggle  with 
a  guilty  memory,  had  tended  ever  backward  and  up 
ward  to  its  original  beauty  (for  that  man's  penitence 
on  earth  had  been  excruciating),  one  by  one  unveiled 
themselves  to  me  in  the  hour  when  I  received  his  last 
confession. 

And  as  the  pain  which  he  had  long  repressed  melt 
ed  in  softened  words  from  the  lips  of  the  dying  man, 
the  force  of  self-retention  which  had  so  obstinately 
fastened  him  to  life  gave  way,  and  the  shattered  body 


THE   FRUIT   OF  THE  SEED.  301 

no  longer  shut  the  soul,  long  since  impatient,  from  the 
entrance  to  the  other  world. 

Feebly  pulsed  the  vital  stream  in  the  languid  left 
hand  that  I  held  in  mine.  Suddenly  the  motion  of  it 
ceased. 

I  thought  that  he  was  dead. 

But  he  lifted  himself,  and  sat  up  in  his  bed.  His 
eyes  opened  wide  and  large,  fixed  with  bright  fer 
vor  in  an  upward  look.  He  stretched  his  right  hand 
high  in  the  air,  as  if  he  there  saw  something  which 
he  sought  to  seize.  His  whole  frame  worked  with  a 
convulsive  spasm.  And  suddenly,  with  intense  voice, 
he  cried, 

"  In  the  name  of  the  All-merciful  God,  save  my  im 
mortal  soul !  Brother,  brother,  stretch  forth  thy  hand !" 

I  shuddered. 

For  it  was,  almost  word  for  word,  the  last  cry  of 
the  dead  Felix  that  issued  then  from  the  lips  of  his 
dying  brother. 

The  hour  of  rendition  and  repayment  had  arrived. 

Of  repayment  ? 

A  divine  smile  broke  like  a  sunbeam  from  a  happy 
land  over  the  features  of  the  dying  man.  With  that 
outstretched  right  hand  he  seemed  to  have  seized 
something,  which  he  passionately  pressed  to  his  lips. 

And  as  in  rapture  he  pressed  that  solemn  kiss  upon 
the  visioned  thing  I  could  not  see,  a  sigh  of  deep  re 
lief  passed  from  his  fervent  lips. 

It  was  his  last. 

PRAY,  GOOD  CHRISTIAN   PEOPLE,  PEACE    TO   THE 
SOUL  OF  EDMOND  COUNT  K . 

THE    END. 


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pRE  AST'S   FIFTEEN  DECISIVE  BATTLES. 

^      The  Fifteen  Decisive  Battles  of  the  World  ;  from  Marathon 
to  Waterloo.     By  E.  S.  CREASY,  A.M.     12mo,  Cloth,  $1  25. 


ALISON'S  MILITARY  LIFE  OF  MARLBOR- 
OUGH.  Military  Life  of  John,  Duke  of  Marlborough. 
With  Maps.  12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 


M 


M 


OTLEY'S  DUTCH  REPUBLIC.    The  Rise  of 

the  Dutch  Republic.  A  History.  By  JOHN  LOTHEOP  MOT 
LEY.  With  a  Portrait  of  William  of  Orange.  3  vols.  8vo, 
Cloth,  $7  50. 


OTLEY'S  UNITED  NETHERLANDS.  Histo 
ry  of  the  United  Netherlands :  from  the  Death  of  William 
the  Silent  to  the  Synod  of  Dort,  With  a  full  View  of  the 
English-Dutch  Struggle  against  Spain,  and  of  the  Origin 
and  Destruction  of  the  Spanish  Armada.  By  JOHN  LO 
THEOP  MOTLEY,  LL.D.,  D.C.L.,  Author  of  "The  Rise  of 
the  Dutch  Republic."  2  vols.  8vo,  Cloth,  $5  00. 


Suitable  for  Officers  and  Military  Students. 
pARLYLE'S  FREDERICK  THE  GREAT.    Vol.  3. 

\**  History  of  Friedrich  II.,  called  Frederick  the  Great.  By 
THOMAS  CARLTLE.  Vol.  III.,  with  Portrait  and  Maps. 
12mo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 


VANE'S  PENINSULAR  WAR.  Story  of  the 
Peninsular  War.  By  General  CHARLES  "W.  VANE,  Marquis 
of  Londonderry,  <fec.  New  Edition,  revised,  with  consider 
able  Additions.  12mo,  Cloth,  $1  00. 


pURTIS'S  HISTORY  OF  THE  CONSTITUTION. 

^-^  History  of  the  Origin,  Formation,  and  Adoption  of  the  Con 
stitution  of  the  United  States.  By  GEORGE  TICKNOR  CUR 
TIS.  Complete  in  two  large  handsome  Octavo  Volumes. 
Cloth,  $5  00. 


STORY  ON  THE  CONSTITUTION.  A  familiar 
Exposition  of  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States.  De 
signed  for  the  use  of  School  Libraries  and  General  Readers. 
With  an  Appendix,  containing  important  Public  Documents 
illustrative  of  the  Constitution.  By  Judge  STORY.  12mo, 
Cloth,  $1  00. 


pLAIBORNE'S  LIFE  OF  GEN.  QUITMAN. 

^^  Life  and  Correspondence  of  John  A.  Quitman,  Major-Gen. 
U.  S.  A.,  and  Governor  of  the  State  of  Mississippi.  By  J. 
F.  CLAIBORNE.  With  a  Portrait  on  Steel.  2  vols.  12mo, 
Cloth,  $3  00. 


pARLETON'S  BUENA  VISTA.     The  Battle  of 

^-^  Buena  Vista,  with  the  Operations  of  the  "  Army  of  Occu 
pation"  for  one  Month.  By  Captain  CARLETON.  12mo, 
Cloth,  $  1  00. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN     INITIAL     FINE     OF     25     CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  5O  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
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DEC  27  1932 

K3S.CR.    JUL251981 


LI)  21-5U>j<-8,'32 


395941 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


